


Save Point

by staidwaters



Series: Replay [1]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Erik lives, Gen, IW either didn’t happen or I’ll figure out how to undo it later in the story, Parenthood, Politics, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-03-29 18:00:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13932324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staidwaters/pseuds/staidwaters
Summary: Sometimes, the only choices are bad ones, and in the aftermath, the only way forward is to go back and start over.





	1. the rich butter-toffee smell of vibranium

**Author's Note:**

> I’m concurrently writing the sequel to this (Going Home), which lets me foreshadow and explain things that don’t fit here, buuuut...it has a lot of characters guessing at events from Save Point and being deliberately deceptive. And to be honest, if I was a reader and thought that the hints I’ve dropped in Going Home were where Save Point was actually going, I wouldn’t read it. Best scenario is that I just finish Going Home fast, so it doesn’t give the wrong impression, but until then...Just know that I’m not actually taking this where Going Home currently hints. I promise. Honestly, I just don’t write things that dark.

_ Prologue _

_ Wakanda, one year after T'Challa defeated his cousin and retook the throne. _

They were first spotted on the Eastern border, a gaunt man half stumbling as he carried a small child through the sulfuric mud pits and steep-cliffed rifts formed by the massive forces tearing the continent apart to make a new tectonic plate. Hidden behind walls of impenetrable illusion, the border guards steeled their hearts against interfering in the likely tragedy to come.  The area had nothing to draw visitors, but it was not unknown for the desperate and lost to travel towards nothingness. Perhaps if the two fell asleep, the guards might sneak from their posts to place food and water nearby, or call in a war dog to relocate them to a road far to the south…

Then the man stepped unerringly onto what should have appeared to him as thin air above a 200’ sheer drop, and calmly walked through the illusion onto Wakandan soil.

The electric shock from the bead that hit his shoulder a few minutes later was calibrated to incapacitate, not render unconscious, but he was already weak.  The child yelped once as they fell, then fell silent, trembling but obedient as the guards separated them and tried to shake the man awake. The man would not wake, and the child would not speak.  The guards called for transport and took the pair to the city.

* * * * * * * *

#  **Chapter 1**

Erik woke to a woven-palm fan swirling slowly above the bed he lay in, sending a small sparkle of dust dancing in the brilliant rays of the setting sun.  A gust of wind fluttered the curtains and skittered across his skin, adding the rich butter-toffee smell of vibranium to the sharp bite of antiseptic that permeated the room.  He had made it to Wakanda, then. Not that he really wanted to be here, but it was a hell of a lot better than any of the alternatives.

He flexed his wrists unobtrusively.  Smooth linen slid across his skin. No shackles.  But Wakanda wouldn’t be that crass, would they? He probably had a mini laser spliced into his spine or something.

“There is soup, if you are awake enough for it.”

He turned his head towards the voice, slowly.  Everything hurt, and there wasn’t much point in pretending otherwise at this point.  Hell, it was probably in his best interest to look as pathetic as possible. He could do that.

Red.  A silver buckle at eye level.  One of the royal bodyguards then.  His eyes traveled upwards. Tight, heavily muscled waist.  A nice handful up top. Then gold. Lots of gold. And a very familiar emotionless face.  The Dora Milaje general.

“My son?”  He asked. It came out halfway between a croak and a whisper, which was admittedly more pitiful - and painful - than he’d been going for.

“W’Kabi has him.”  She jerked her chin towards the foot of the bed and Erik rolled his head, slowly, to follow.  W’Kabi sat on a bench opposite the bed, bouncing a child on his knee. When he saw Erik looking, he hunched over a little bit - shame, perhaps, although Erik couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment at being caught playing babysitter, or at losing the fight a year ago and failing to kill T’Challa (although it’s not like Erik had any room to toss blame around there).  Then W’Kabi straightened and met his eyes, with this kind of wincing half-smile that was … what, apologetic? Proud? Sardonic? Hopeful? Hell if he could tell. Maybe all four. It was clear W’Kabi wasn’t his anymore, anyhow. He’d obviously gone crawling back to T’Challa and acted repentant enough to earn forgiveness at some point; he was wearing the militia’s usual blue armor-blanket thing, and Erik could see the bulges of weapons - a lot of weapons - underneath.

It was unexpectedly petty, this blatant display of his current powerlessness.  That his once-loyal second could be trusted as his jailer now. He swallowed down the rush of fury.  Anger had its use, but not here. Not now. And maybe it was W’Kabi’s loyalty being tested, not a show for him.  That would be more in character for Dear Coz, wouldn’t it?

He looked away, making it as deliberate as he could as he focused back on the woman, whose expression hadn’t changed a bit.  It was clear where the real power in the room was, anyhow, so it was better that he speak to her. Probably cause less trouble for W’Kabi  too.

“Eventually one of the Dora Milaje will be assigned permanently as the prince’s bodyguard, but the king did not think you would be happy to wake to see him in the hands of one who had fought you. W’Kabi and I will share the duty for now.”

Say what?  Erik stared up at the woman, who looked back with stone-faced indifference.  The moment drew out.

“We’ve been discussing having a child lately anyhow,” W’Kabi broke the silence, “so it seemed like a good chance to practice.”

“Good argument fodder, for you, you mean,” the woman retorted.  “I have raised one prince already; the antics of children are no secret to me.”

Were they... ?  He wasn’t going to ask.  Besides...there had only been one prince in Wakanda within the last several decades. “You raised T’Challa?” Erik asked blankly.  Well, rich folk dumping their kids on nannies was a stereotype the world over, but somehow he hadn’t expected that here. The flat stare he got in return was less unexpected, admittedly.

“Okoye was assigned as his guard and tutor when he was four and she was nine.  This is the first time she has been assigned away from him since, so she is a bit antsy,” W’Kabi laughed, teasingly.  Baiting the ice-woman seemed like a bad idea in general - and that immobile-object thing she had going seemed rather the opposite of antsy to Erik - but what did he know?

The woman - Okoye- snapped something back in return, but Erik’s eyes were slipping shut again.  There was a LOT he wanted to ask, but it was clear there wasn’t any immediate danger, and he was so very tired…

A strong hand grabbed his shoulder and shook him hard.  Or it might have been gently and he was just that broken.  It hurt, anyhow, and the pain was enough to shock him back awake.

“Eat, first.”

“What do you care?” Erik grumbled, but scrunched up a bit so he could get his elbows under himself and lever up to an almost sitting position.  (He didn’t quite make it before slipping, but a pile of pillows had magically appeared behind him at some point, so he remained somewhat upright.) This absolutely wasn’t the first time he’d been so badly injured he was confined to a bed, but he had never been so WEAK before.  Maybe they’d drugged him with something. Or Hydra had. Speaking of which…

“Hydra is on my tail, probably not more than two or three days behind me.  Don’t know numbers, but there’ll be a lot of them. Guy I worked with figured out I’d been enhanced somehow - sold me out to Hydra and they grabbed me as research for their super-soldier project.”

He looked up at Okoye, meeting her eyes directly. “I talked.  They know everything I know - The vibranium mines, the atmospheric shields, the border towns.  That the princess makes the weapons and the king’s armor is hidden in a necklace. Everything I ever knew or guessed about how the technology works, the chain of command, the heart shaped herb.  Everything. They’ll be coming in force, and they will be ready for everything you can throw at them.”

Okoye nodded, looking unsurprised.  “I know. You told us when you arrived, and last time you woke up. We are ready and waiting for them.  They will not cross our borders. Your son will be safe.”

_ ‘Your son  _ .’  Erik wasn’t sure if the sudden dryness if his throat was his own obvious exclusion from that statement of safety - not that he had expected anything else - or from hearing someone else acknowledge his paternity, that familiar twisted fear of suddenly finding himself in front of an unexpected challenge that he knew he wasn't going to win.  It was like that moment at the mines, when T’Challa had shown up right before he could finally start  _ winning  _ .  Erik had looked at him, stalking up the hill all kingly and confident and determined, and knew he’d lost before a single blow landed.  He’d barely won the first time, when T’Challa had been so far off his game it was almost pitiful, wracked with guilt and shame. Add in that T’Challa had far more experience fighting in the suit than he did?  He’d known it wouldn’t even be a contest. He’d done a hell of a lot better than he’d expected, to be honest. He’d hoped to hold off long enough to let at least some of the weapons through, but even if he hadn’t managed that, he had landed a few good blows.

He’d felt the same sense of predestined failure dragging his son out of the car wreck he’d triggered when Hydra had been stupid enough to put his son in the seat next to him, where he could cover fragile bone and flesh with his own unnaturally resilient body as the car spun and rolled after he snapped the neck of the driver.  What did he know of parenting? He’d be a shit father. Shitty role model, shitty teacher, shitty provider. All those things that parents were supposed to be - they were things he  _ wasn’t  _ .  Whatever happened to him now, it’d almost certainly be better for his son here than any alternative.  They were all about family here, right? Family, tribe, heirs, the whole shebang. Admittedly having his son raised by some Amazon chick sounded kinda crazy, but T’Challa and his sister seemed to have survived it well enough.  And giving him one of the bodyguards - that was proof that T’Challa acknowledged their kinship, would protect his son. Give him the life that Erik’s blood-stained hands  _ couldn’t  _ .

A mug of rich dark broth appeared in front of him.  Some kind of herbal tea, it smelled like, although there was an oil film on top that suggested meat was involved at some point in its creation.  The room wasn’t cold, but the heat radiating off the ceramic felt wonderful when he wrapped his hands around it. (He had thought the right one had been pretty thoroughly shattered in the crash, but ...that’s Wakanda for you.  He wondered if they had hesitated before healing him, had a conference and debated out whether to leave him hamstrung and helpless. There was a lot he could do with two working hands, even weak as he was now...) He took a sip.  Honey. Salt. His stomach awoke with a roar and he gulped the rest down, but it didn’t come close to sating the raging hunger twisting in his gut. He put down the empty mug and stared at his hands. (He wouldn’t beg. He wouldn’t. Maybe to T’Challa, for his son.  But not like this, not for food.)

“More will be brought in a quarter hour.”

A quarter hour. He had been close to starvation, then, if they were being that cautious with his intake.  But if he was that bad off...He looked back over at W’Kabi (at his son).

“He is well.” The man assured him. “A bit malnourished, but it is slight, and will not affect his future.  You took better care of him than you did yourself.”

There hadn’t been enough  _ food  _ to take care of them both, Erik snarled, although he kept it silent, in his head.  He’d been able to eat fine on the container ship he’d stowed away on, once he revealed himself and locked away the crew, but Hydra had found him almost immediately once he’d jumped ship just outside Djibouti’s bustling port.  He’d intended to join a tourist bus headed to Ethiopia to celebrate Timkat in Shire and Gondar - in such thick crowds he could have hidden his trail completely, and from there it’d have been easy to catch a ride with someone headed to Omo, which was as close to Wakanda as you could get by road - but he’d had to stay away from cities after Hydra found him, too injured to pass unnoticed, much less fight off another Hydra hit squad.  But sticking to the back roads meant passing through small towns that would remember him if they saw him, and avoiding being seen meant avoiding buying gas, and stealing a series of cars instead. It wasn’t long before his luck ran out and the truck he’d found died in the middle of nowhere, where he couldn’t replace it. He’d decided it’d be faster to cut cross country instead of sticking to the road and risking being spotted before he could find a new ride. He was usually fine living off the land, but January was the height of the dry season, and he’d been traveling fast.  (Running scared.) He was just lucky it was an area he had passed through before, that he knew how to forage in. (Twelve scars sitting low on his back, most of them four rows up from his tailbone, the last three over his left kidney. It should have been two. The son had been an accident, barely older than Erik’s son is now.) Already injured, and slowed down by carrying his child, he’d weakened faster than he expected.

The general appeared to read something in his silence anyhow.  “I will let the king know you have awakened,” she announced, and he heard her moving away.  A door hissed open somewhere, and the footsteps faded away. Why not just call? Some fucked up formality thing?

“She thinks you will be more willing to speak if you are alone with me.” W’Kabi explained, shifting the now sleeping child to cradle him in his arms as he stood and approached the bed.  “Are you well enough to hold him?”

“Naw,” Erik shook his head, overly casual, hiding his relief at the offered excuse.  “I’ll be asleep again soon. Don’t want to drop him. So what comes next?”

W’Kabi shrugged.  “You and T’Challa figure out your position.  You heal while we figure out how to keep Hydra from making our secrets public.  Eventually we will go after them, most likely -you are not the only reason we have to target them, of course- and the king will probably allow you to join us in the hunt, if you are well enough by then.”

“Was expecting something more along the lines of interrogation and execution, to be honest.  Attempted regicide, et cetera et cetera.”

“You will be debriefed, of course.  We will appreciate whatever information you can provide.  As for the rest.” W’Kabi shrugged. “You cannot be punished without T’Challa also punishing those of us that supported you.  Are there are very, very many of us. We received a blanket pardon, and the King’s promise that he would listen to us. Perhaps if he had known you survived, he would have worded the pardon differently … but he did not, and now it covers you as well.  Besides. I am glad to have you here, and I am not alone in that. My people are setting foot on a path we have little experience with - it is not the path you would have taken us on, but you will be a useful resource. In any case, it is not a bad thing to have an extra heir or two stashed away in a time of instability.”

“I come here to kill the king, start a revolt and what, it’s all forgiven? Welcome home brother, here, have a throne?”

“The throne is not yours. And even if both T’Challa and Shuri were to fall before you, I doubt you would survive to sit upon it.  Even the greatest warrior falls eventually, if challenged by too many. And the elders may still turn you away, or imprison you. Such is their right, to be a check upon the panther’s power.  But I do not think they will. Many followed you simply because you were King. But there are many who believe in your cause as well.”

This was not what he had expected to walk into.  He’d thought he had LOST. For a brief moment he saw the blazing path of his father’s dream unfurl before him once more… and then his son snuffled in his sleep, a few drops of drool slipping out to stain W’Kabi’s shirt as the child wriggled deeper into the muscled chest. He swallowed and looked away.  It probably wouldn’t work any better this time anyhow. He’d lost the benefit of surprise.

“You know I set it all up, right?  I was the one who made sure everybody knew where Klaue was, and then I made sure he’d escape. To make T’Challa look weak, make him off balance when I challenged him.”

“I suspected.  Even when you first arrived, I suspected.  But it was a cunning plan. I can respect that.”

“That’s it?”

“My wife will never forgive you, I think.  And I regret the discord that has brought between us.  She has served the throne whole-heartedly her entire life.  I knew when I married her that I would always come in a distant second.  That our children, our people would always come in a distant second. But now…I do not think she serves the throne anymore.  I am not sure she has realized that, and I do not know what will replace it in her heart. I am worried it will break her when she does.”

“Your wife.  That’d be…”

“General Okoye.  Yes.” The man was literally puffing up with pride.  Shit. How had he missed that they were married? No, fuck that. How had W’Kabi rushed off to fight for him, knowing that Erik was about to kill his wife right behind him?  Had he thought that the women would stay out of it? But no, W’Kabi hadn’t hesitated when the women swarmed his troops to protect T’Challa. He had to have known it was on his wife’s orders.  He had to have known that the only reason she wasn’t standing on the field against him was because she had stayed behind to fight Erik. That was …. Really fucked up, actually. Erik had known plenty of couples who wouldn’t mind if one partner dropped dead, but it was really fucking obvious that W’Kabi didn’t hate his wife.  The opposite, actually.

“How’d that come about?”

“She kicked me in the face.”  He laughed. “Not the most romantic start, but I think I loved her from that moment.  It was eight years ago, at the one-on-one tournament of the autumn games. It was down to the two of us, and she took me out as if I was made of straw, then led the Dora Milaje to their first victory in the melee combat two days later. A division from my  tribe had always won the melee. Always. For centuries. No one thought it possible that anyone would ever take us down. And then she made it look  _ easy  _ .  I was in one of the first divisions that fell before them, and wound up with a broken wrist and a twisted ankle, but I wouldn’t let them take me away to heal.  I didn’t want to risk missing anything. They mowed through division after division, tirelessly efficient. It was glorious. I spent the next two years doing everything in my power to bring my own troops up to her level; I think every division of the border troops did.  We never succeeded. In the end, what could I do but join her?”

Warrior culture.  Right. How had Wakanda kept such a combat-centered culture with literally no one to fight?  Erik was pretty sure that wasn’t how the real world worked. You get a bunch of people to dedicate their lives to becoming badasses, they’re gonna want to act like badasses and actually use those skills.  Which was pretty much exactly what had happened, but…why hadn’t it happened  _ before  _ ?

The door slid open.  W’Kabi turned. Bowed.  “Kumkani,” he murmured, looking at the floor.

It was T’Challa.


	2. Bit o’dynamite brings it down a lot faster

T’Challa didn’t even look at W’Kabi.  That was a wound that hadn’t healed cleanly, obviously.  Unlike whatever the fuck was up with W’Kabi and his wife.  The silver-armored woman who had entered with T’Challa jerked her head to the side, as blank-faced as her general, and W’Kabi sidled outside, still carrying Erik’s son.  Which was probably all for the good. Kids weren’t supposed to be exposed to scary crap, right? Too much adrenaline and dopamine and shit in the brain while still developing, and the body adapted to always provide it, to always run on that knife edge of fight or flight.  The kid had two months of that already.

“You are looking better.”

This was better?  Slouched in a bed, too weak to even sit upright on his own?  Or were there other injuries Erik hadn’t noticed yet, hidden beneath the sheets?  He didn’t bother responding. He WANTED to point out that the pardon made him untouchable, but there were ways around it, for sure.  The folks in power always left loopholes, even if W’Kabi hadn’t recognized them. T’Challa held all the power here. And mentioning it at all would make it clear that W’Kabi had told him.  He wanted to keep that line clear. W’Kabi was useful, and he had taken over the care of his son.

“What are your intentions here?”

“Are you fucking serious?”  No. Wait. He couldn’t go there. He closed his eyes. Begging time.  W’Kabi had given him some solid guidelines, at least. “My son. Give him a place here.  Whatever you want me to do in return, fine. Whatever you want to do with me, I’ll go along with it.  I got skills. You know I do. You open the borders, let everyone know you got treasure here? You’re gonna get spies and thieves.  I know the holes I exploited. I can close ‘em up. And I know the people likely to be sent here, probably personally. I’ll recognize them.  Keep ‘em out. And those outreach centers you set up? They are going to be targets. Armed robbers, for sure, if you go in waving all this wealth around.  Not to mention all the folks who want to maintain the status quo so they can keep slapping us down. Your warriors can fight them off, but how’re you going to protect the people once they leave your doors? I know how to make them less of a target.  How to make the centers seem like less of a threat, so they get overlooked. And those countries that won’t let you in? I know who to bribe to get them to open their doors, and what to bribe them with. I’ve been doing this shit for years. I can make it work for you.”

T’Challa was staring at him with an eyebrow raised and a half smile quirking his lips.  What the fuck was funny?

“Hmmm.  Yes, I can imagine that you believe yourself quite skilled at manipulating politicians to your will.”

Shit.

“Yeah, so I fucked you up.  I fucked your country up. You want revenge for that?  You need me dead to feel safe? I’m pretty fucking helpless here.  Do it. But the kid ain’t done nothing wrong. He’s innocent. And he’s your blood.  You going to abandon him the way your daddy abandoned me? Send him out there for Hydra to cut apart?  Cuz I at least had a life out there. With Hydra on his tail? He’ll grow up in a cage. And then they’ll dump him in a trash heap to rot once they’ve bled him dry.  You gonna give your blood to…”

“Your son is safe here.”  T’Challa interrupted. “That was never in question.  Only your own status.”

So W’Kabi had been right.  Nice.

“You protect my son, you get me.  That’s the deal. You can do whatever the fuck you want with me.”

“You told me you would rather die than be imprisoned.”

“Didn’t know I had a son then.”

T’Challa nodded.  “I will think on it.”  They stared at each other a moment.  “Is there anything else you wish to ask of me?”

Actually…

“Thought you’d forgiven W’Kabi, when I woke up and saw him here.  But you didn’t even look at him.”

T’Challa sighed, heavily, and sat down in the chair next to the bed, letting his head fall back with a thud, all the kingly dignity slipping away.  “It is hard to forgive, when one has not been forgiven,” he said wryly.

Erik stared in fascination.  This was T’Challa the person, not the king.  And Erik had apparently moved from prisoner to agony aunt.

“You only failed to kill Klaus because I was there.”

“I still failed.”

“And his wife hasn’t beaten sense into him yet?”

“My general knows her husband, as he knows her.  She has no more desire to change him than he does her.”

“What if he’d killed you?”

“She would have mourned, but served you loyally. The Dora Milaje serve the throne, not the nation.”

Yeah, maybe once, Erik thought, remembering W’Kabi’s words.  Not something he’d bring up now though.

“W’Kabi serves his men, and his tribe, and the nation.”  T’Challa continued. “This is not the first time their loyalties have divided them.  They have accepted that as the price of their love.”

“I could not love you so much, my love, loved I not honor more.”  Erik murmured, pretty sure he was messing up the quote. Remembering long strands of tight curls wrapping around his fingers, a fiery passion and drive that almost matched his own.

“Exactly. So she will not intervene.”  T’Challa sighed and looked down at his hands.  “And there are other reasons. Okoye has always been by my side.  When they began courting, often the only way he could be near her, was to find a way to accompany me.  So he courted my friendship as well. We have been inseparable for most of the last decade. I knew he resented me for his lack of time alone with his wife, that I was so often there between them, but I thought it was simply the way of things.  Unavoidable. I thought our friendship was true. I looked up to him as an older brother.”

“An older brother who always had to do everything you said, and who could not court his lover without your permission.  That’s messed up, Coz.”

“Yes.  I was blind.  She used to share my bedchambers as well, most nights,” he added, as if obligated to be thorough in all the reasons W’Kabi had to hate him.

Erik stared at him in disbelief, mouth gaping.  “What the Fuck!”

“Not like that!  As my bodyguard!”  T’Challa sputtered.  “She was in the room, not in my bed.  I would not…”

“Could you, if you wanted?”  Erik asked, morbidly curious.  “Never mind, don’t answer that,” he interrupted before T’Challa could speak, suddenly sure that he did not want to face W’Kabi with that knowledge in his head.  “For a utopia, you got some holes in the system here.”

“She’d flatten me for asking,” T’Challa interjected wryly. “But it is time for a change, yes.  I think it was easy for us to hold ourselves apart when the outside was so far behind us that they seemed completely alien to us.  The reports of war dogs from centuries ago have more in common with those of the rangers who guard our savannas than those of modern war dogs.”  Erik caught his breath, fury taking him by surprise. Again. T’Challa saw it. “It was wrong of us. We were wrong. And we have changed, I promise you.  Perhaps not for any good and moral reason, but the technology and culture of the world beyond has caught up enough that we can see outsiders as people like us.  Those who travel beyond our borders often find friends and lovers there, who they do not wish to lie to. And there are things outside that some wish to bring home with them.”

“Hollywood?” Erik snorted, packing his anger away.  Not useful.

“Self-determination.  Distributive justice. Transnational responsibility.  Democracy.”

“That last one isn’t going to go well for you.  And the rest are pipe dreams unless you are willing to fight for them.”

“Just because others have failed does not mean we will.  And even if we fail, it does not mean they are not ideals worth reaching for.  Or fighting for, although I will not burn the world down to save it.” A pointed glance.  Erik shrugged. “As for the throne? More and more power has been devolving from the king to the council and departments regardless.” His lips quirked wryly.”  The movement has grown in strength of late.”

“My fault?” Erik grinned toothily.  “Sorry.”

T’Challa snorted.  “You do not get to take credit for the river that has worn through the cliff base.”

“Bit o’dynamite brings it down a lot faster though.”

Erik regretted saying it almost immediately.  This was dangerous territory. Until T’Challa decided what to do with him, Erik needed to lock away his anger, his fear, his hate; muzzle his biting tongue and bury his arrogance and anything else that might make T’Challa see him as a threat.  “So, W’Kabi. You’re just going to leave it like this? Ever think that if you can’t forgive him because he hasn’t forgiven you, maybe it’s the same for him. Maybe it’s not his place to forgive you first. One of you has to go first. And you’re the one with all the power.”

T’Challa raised his eyebrows.  “Perhaps you are right.” He stood, and walked towards Erik, till he stood over the bed.  Looming over Erik in obvious threat, although that was probably not his intention. “N’Jadaka.  If my forgiveness of you will allow you to forgive my family’s crimes against you in even the smallest way, then know that you have it, cousin.  And I enjoy your wit when you forget yourself enough to feel free to speak your mind with me.”

Erik didn’t respond.  He knew he should. He should say thank you, yes please, mother may I.  He didn’t. He couldn’t.

T’Challa nodded slightly.  “I will look into your options.  Let W’Kabi know if you need anything.”  He moved away. Erik didn’t watch him go.  The door opened. Closed. Erik was alone.


	3. If we are not his people, then he can not have betrayed us

The room fell silent at the crack of the crone’s Jabari-wood staff against the metal tiles of the meeting room floor.

“Tell us something we do not know, oh kumkani,” she challenged. “If you would have us do this thing, oh king, then first prove to us that your eyes saw his faults in full, that your judgement is clear.”

There was a pregnant pause.

“N’Jadaka wore a mask, the first time I saw him,”  the young king replied eventually, thoughtfully. “It was stolen at the same time as the vibranium spade Klaue was selling.  A holy relic of centuries past. Irreplaceable. He wore it to steal Klaue from our custody, into combat amidst guns and grenades, against Okoye’s spear and my claws.  He did not care if it was destroyed, for he cares nothing for protecting Africa’s culture, just as he showed no respect for Wakandan culture when he burned the heart shaped herb - the only culture he sees of value is the American one in which he has lived.”

“He looks down on Wakanda for our isolationism, but he is equally disrespectful of the rest of Africa.  He only respects strength, and sees those who suffer as weak. He has probably always looked down on the people around him, knowing that he is of royal blood, and they are not.  And that sense of separation from the people around him made it easy for him to compartmentalize away the horrors he was doing as long as he promised himself it was in the service of a worthy goal.”

“He hates. He believed he was born to greatness, and it was stolen from him.  By my father, by the white man, by Wakandan isolationism. By the weakness of those who fought and failed, the cruelty of those who see the suffering and do not care.  I doubt there can be more of a handful of people on this planet he did not hate. And he did not spare himself from his hate. He knew he was not what he could be. What he should be. And the more terrible he became, the more desperate he was to succeed and wipe out his sins with good deeds.  And the greater the good deeds needed for him to cleanse his guilt.”

The old woman nodded with satisfaction, but T’Challa wasn’t done.

“And yet, at his heart, N’Jadaka has the soul of a Wakandan prince.  It is clear that N’Jobu took care to raise him as a prince, for all that it was not on our soil.  He seeks to serve. He has dedicated his entire life to the service of his cause and his people. He has used himself as mercilessly as he would have used the lives of our people. With his skills, he could readily have found prosperity and happiness for himself, but he would not, for he believed himself born to a greater cause- the protection of his people. He will not rest, or seek succor, while those he has placed under his protection suffer.  And that has led him to a miserable life.”

“His people.  But we are not his people. He would never have protected US.” The narrow-eyed leader of the mining tribe snorted, elongated lip dropping in a fierce frown.

“We are not the ones he serves, no.   But we do not need his protection. And he is my cousin.  I claim him. As one of MY people.” T’Challa shook his head, spreading his arms entreatingly.  “For all of my uncle’s crimes, I cannot believe that the brother of my father would have walked a path that risked such destruction.  I can only imagine that N’Jadaka knew his father’s dream, but not the details. And in the absence of his father’s guidance, he was unable to see any path there but the most simple and destructive.  With us, here, in Wakanda, he could learn of better paths to take. My cousin is brilliant. Cunning. Patient. Determined. Disciplined. He is  _ capable  _ of learning a  _ better  _ way.”

The delicate bells on the red-wrapped braids of the mining tribe elder chimed as she shook her head sadly. “You speak as if it is a given that we have a better plan.  His plan would not have brought peace and prosperity, but neither will anything we will do. There is not such a simple solution to the world’s ills. You have just described how necessary success is to him, as justification for the evils he has done.  Do you truly believe he will be content to give that up? Will he be able to live with his failure to atone for his sins?”

“And not blame us for it?”  General Okoye rarely spoke up at council meetings, but when she did, it tended to be straight to the point.

T’Challa spread his hands and smiled.  “He loves his son, and with Hydra hunting him in search of the secrets  of his strength, the secrets of the Black Panther, there is no place on the planet safe for them, save here, where Hydra has never set foot, and never will.  It will make him miserable, I suspect, but for his son, he will endure. And as long as his son is with us, raised as one of ours, we can be sure he will never act against Wakanda again. Besides, with our education and resources, and his knowledge and cunning, perhaps we will come across a solution better than what either of us could manage on our own.”

“How is he even here?  It was reported that he had died at your hands.”

“I do not know.  My blade pierced his heart, and he bled out in my arms.  There was no pulse, and I was kneeling in a pool of his blood.  I cannot believe there was enough blood left in his body for anyone to survive, even with one of Shuri’s technological miracles.  Shuri thinks the heart shaped herb may have healed him, but that does not explain who or what I burned. I suspect someone smuggled him out after he was sealed in his coffin, as no one opened it before we let it fall into the waters.  I hope that is the case, at least.”

“If so then there would be a traitor still in our midst.  You have not asked?”

“He is in poor shape, after so long as a prisoner.  And it is more important to fully debrief him on what he told Hydra while they had him.”

“Which is everything, as I understand it.  You would welcome one who has betrayed us so thoroughly?  Now that Hydra knows the secrets of our mines, none of us will ever be safe!”

“If we are not his people, then he can not have betrayed us.  And they were hurting his son to make him talk. I find I can not blame him for speaking.”

The queen mother spoke next, beautiful face frozen in shame-tinged disapproval. “How old is his son?”

“He is walking, but only barely.  Two years, perhaps?”

“So he was born before the Killmonger brought death among us.”

T’Challa frowned at his mother’s refusal to use her nephew’s true name.  “Yes, but N’Jadaka did not know of his existence. His mother did not want to be sidelined from the fight, and hid her pregnancy, giving the child to his grandmother to raise immediately after birth.  N’Jadaka first saw him after Hydra brought him in to test if the power of the Black Panther was inherited. He held his son for the first time during their escape.”

“So the child is only a quarter Wakandan.  And yet still in line for the throne.”

An angry murder arose.  “Surely you must be joking!  Son of N’Jobu or not, he is an outsider!  He can not be in the line of succession!”

“I would feel better if a law were passed requiring council confirmation of a king raised outside our borders,” T’Challa admitted.  “But I do not feel it necessary, and there is no need to strip his son of his birthright. Regardless of what decisions are reached regarding N’Jadaka’s future, I will see his son raised here, as a true Wakandan prince.  He will be Wakandan, one of our people - the other sources of his blood are irrelevant. N’Jadaka will never force his son from the peace and safety he will know here, and as long as his son is here, N’Jadaka will fight for us.”

“Fight for us.  That is more than simply not betraying us.  You would arm him?”

“I...am unsure.  It will be many months before it is even a possibility.  Shuri’s miracles can heal most any wounds, but not on a body so wasted there is no energy to spare on regrowth.  He still has the powers of the heart shaped herb though, and he is skilled. If he offered, and was able, I do not think I would refuse him.”

The head of the river tribe nodded.  “It would not be a bad thing to split the duties of king and black panther again.  It is wasteful -and dangerous - to have one man doing both. If we can trust him.”

“You are mad, Komoru.  I will not see him given Bast’s blessing!” The mining tribe’s leader hissed.

“He already has it,” the river tribesman retorted. “And obviously she has no problem with him.”

“It is only a small possibility, and one that can be decided far into the future,” the king interrupted.  “And while it is obvious that he could only have returned to us through uncanny luck, I am not sure it holds true that Bast has not punished his audacity.  He has suffered much since he left us. Suffering such as that does not heal clean. I would not be surprised if he chooses to never lift a blade again.”

“Or arms himself heavily and never lets himself show vulnerability again.”

“As you say,”  T’Challa nodded gracefully. “Be that as it may; will you have him here?”

“The border tribe abstains.”  The elderly woman who had opened the discussion shook her head.  “My people’s judgment in this matter has proven poor. We will accept whatever decision is made.”

“To his presence, the mining tribe will consent. For the sake of charity.  But not to his taking the panther’s claws, or being the princess’s heir. Regardless of what the future brings, he has proven himself a betrayer and oath breaker.  We will never trust him. His son...we shall see.”

“The river tribe will follow your lead, Kumkani.  If you wish him here, we will accept him.”

The king nodded. “I thank you.  Let us adjourn, then, as I have much to do, to make arrangements for his care.” He stood, and waited as the others moved towards the door.  A hand landed lightly on his arm.

“I almost spoke up, to say that the panther tribe voted nay,” the queen mother’s voice was soft as she stared into her son’s eyes.  “It has been centuries since the elder of the panther tribe went against the will of our king. But I saw him kill you. I am not sure I can ever forgive him for that.”

T’Challa smiled and clasped her hands between his own.  “And yet I am here, mother. Unharmed.”

“You have a wide soul.”  She let her hand drop. “The child.  Our new prince. My grand-nephew. What is his name?”

T’Challa pursed his lips and looked away.  “N’Jadaka doesn’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve asked the war dogs in America to look into it.”

“It would be a European name regardless, I imagine.  You should give him a Wakandan name.”

“He has a name, mother, even if we do not know it. I can not just rename him.”

“Is that not what you have been doing with Killmonger?”

“His name is N’Jadaka.”

“Is it?  Or did you make that choice for him?  If you are going to see him clearly, then ask him for his name, T’Challa.”


	4. yay for glowy flower superpowers

Erik stood in front of the mirror, shirt open, and traced his hand down the strip of smooth skin that stretched wide from his left shoulder to waist.  One of Hydra’s energy weapons had gotten him in Djibouti. By the time he’d reached the Wakandan border, the burn had become badly infected, swollen and weeping.  Wakandan doctors had healed the burn - and removed the scars that had been beneath it. Perhaps that had been the only way to heal it. Or just the simplest way. There was no reason to see it as an insult, as something stolen against his will.

He touched it again, and flinched despite himself.  It felt wrong. Over sensitive. Naked. Like an open wound.

The skin over his scars was less sensitive than the rest - completely numb, in a few places - and when he first started getting them, every touch had distracted him.  Something would touch him on a scar but he would barely feel it, a sensation so odd it’d grab his full attention, so when the touch moved to unmarred skin, the shock of full sensation combined with that absolute focus would be just MORE, a thousand times more, so intense it was like he was truly inhabiting his skin for the first time.  Eventually he got used to it, and the disparate input from scar tissue and skin stopped being such a surprise. The touch of a hand grazing across the pattern still made him shiver most times, but these days it was a toss up whether it was physical stimulus or simply his own fascinated repulsion at what he had become.

He had burnt his fierceness into his skin. Flaunted his apparent invulnerability to every torment the world could throw at him, gloried in having visible evidence that he always, always won.  They were a reminder that he was always going to be better than anyone who stood against him, no matter if he simpered agreeably in front of idiots in order to get shit done. A vicious insult to his enemies, a warning, an eager challenge to any brave enough to oppose him.  A way to get the world to feel the same disgust and hatred he always felt. A furious acknowledgement that life was war, was pain and loss and surviving against all odds.

The patch of blank skin made his skin crawl.  He wanted the scars back, but he knew T’Challa would disapprove.  It wasn’t just for himself though. They were reminders of what he owed, and the people he owed it to.  People he had stolen life from in the name of a greater cause. Who he’d promised to remember and respect.  A reminder that he needed to make their sacrifice worthwhile. But … he was giving that up, wasn’t he? He’d chosen his son over his people, over his responsibilities.  He was never going to make those deaths worthwhile now. Would it be more of an insult to add them back to his body without intending to fulfill the unspoken promise they represented? Did he have any right to them anymore?

The door whooshed open and he spun around.

“Do you swim?”  T’Challa’s sister barged into Erik’s room (cell?).

“What’s it to you?”  He’d talk to T’Challa if he had to.  Maybe. Sometimes. He had no desire to make amends with the girl though.  It wasn’t because she’d come close to taking him down or anything like that.  He just didn’t like her. All bubbly and cheerful as she made weapons for her family, to keep them on top, and everyone else underneath.  Always improving them so even if someone else could get their hands on one, they’d still be outgunned, because her family would always have something better.

“If you can swim, then you’re coming to the picnic this afternoon.  Okoye can’t come if you don’t, and I want my whole family there. Which, includes you now, I guess.” She eyed him critically, then waved her hand dismissively. She turned to Okoye, who was watching from her post outside the door with unhidden amusement. “You will come, won’t you, Okoye?”

“Who’d watch the kid?” Erik interrupted.

“Those with children often carry them in the shallows,” Okoye said. “I can manage.”  Her eyes challenged him to object to her ability to keep a child safe in the water, but actually, Erik trusted her pretty completely not to slip or drop the kid or something. He’d seen her fight.

Erik had a sudden mental image of trying to walk out the door and getting zapped with something.  “I allowed out?”

“Of course you are,” the princess snorted.  “You’re not a prisoner!”

Erik raised an eyebrow at that.

“Have you spent the last week in here because you thought the door was LOCKED?”

Erik clenched his jaw and kept the seething fury off his face.  “I swim. You got something for me in there” he nodded towards her bag, “or we going au natural?”

She eyed his light cotton shirt and pants, “what you are wearing is fine.  In this heat they’ll dry in minutes.”

A few minutes later, Erik found himself walking through the shadowy indoor courtyard of fountains and pools that made up the bottom floor of most Wakandan buildings.  A light breeze buffeted them from somewhere ahead, bringing hints of hot stone and dry air. Then they were past the thick clay walls and the blazing light and heat outside crashed down on them like a slap, making his eyes water and stealing the breath from his lungs.  He narrowed his eyes and breathed shallowly, consciously relaxing his muscles and willing his body to slow his heartbeat and adapt.

“This way,” Shuri pointed and bounced off, apparently unaffected by the heat.  Erik narrowed his eyes and followed, Okoye strolling behind, carrying his son against her side.  Erik slowed and looked back. “He need a hat or something?”

“We will stay in the shade,” she informed him.  “And I will notice if more is needed.” Erik shrugged.  Not like he’d know any better.

They hopped on one of the ubiquitous open-sided trolleys. No one seemed to care that they were being joined by royalty.  Or a killer. Pretty soon the tram was crammed full, with people leaping up to stand on the side rails.

They passed the last of the apartments and homes that ringed the city and emerged onto a narrow road running through a rock strewn canyon without anyone getting off.  It was a familiar canyon, actually. Erik had passed this way before, on his way to the challenge site.

“So where’s everyone else  going?” He asked, carefully nonchalant.

“Everyone goes to the river today,” Shuri waved her hand loosely.  “The rains will come next week. They are early this year.”

Erik glanced over at the General, hoping for more explanation, but she was ignoring him.

Yeah, not worth asking.

The trolley turned a corner and popped out of the canyon, the wide expanse of the river spilling across the golden-grassed plateau in front of them, a sparkling silver mesh broken by meandering ribbons of bamboo-like water reeds and weeping-branched mangroves.  A rhythmic boom echoed in the distance.

The trolley’s path followed the river bank, and in the wake of their passage, flocks of startled water birds took flight with splashing caws, while crocodiles whipped off the banks and slipped into the water. A little further on, the booming became recognizable as deep-voiced drums, now joined by the rapid thrum of hand drums and jangling tambourines.

Erik’s son blinked and sat up straighter, moving one hand slightly to the rhythm.  It was the most engagement Erik had seen from him in over a month, since he had stopped reacting to anything that wasn’t an immediate threat.  Now that was definitely was worth putting up with the princess. Little drum major in the making, apparently. Although…

“This is like a festival, then?  The whole city’s here?”

Shuri glanced over.  “Mostly. People like guards and doctors stay on duty, of course, although they stagger shifts so everyone can come out at some point over the next few days.”

“You headed to the center or can we stay on the outskirts?  I’m not sure how he’ll handle a crowd,” he nodded at his son, who was still flexing his hand in time with the beat.

“Kids love chaos,” she frowned.

“Last couple months, any change in routine meant he was going to be hurt.  He knew he was safe when he was left alone. He’s having fun now, but that might mean he panics harder once something startles him.”

“He isn’t bothered by the crowded bus.”

Eric shrugged.

She stared at him a moment longer and then nodded, fiddling with a kimoyo bead.  “Your call. Okoye, are we inside the barriers yet?”

“Around the next corner.”  Her mouth quirked up. “There is a nice beach there, as I recall.  I doubt it will be completely empty, but we can avoid the masses, and it’s above the first rapids, so we will have a good view.”

“Barriers?” Erik asked.

“Nets across the river.”  Shuri explained. “To keep predators out of the water while we splash about.”  Erik remembered the crocodiles along the shore and nodded in understanding.

Apparently she had done something when she was fiddling with her beads, because the trolley rolled to a smooth stop just around the next corner, much to the mildly irritated murmurs of surprise from the other passengers.   

Shuri ignored them and hopped off, Erik and Okoye following. “Mother says she’ll meet us up here later,” she told Okoye. “She is enjoying the dancing.”

“I’m an adult man, you know.  Don’t need a babysitter. You can go join your mom if you want.”

Shuri sniffed and waved it off, pushing aside a low hanging branch and kicking her way through the tall grass.  “I brought lunch,” she pointed out, overly loud, patting the large bag by her side. “She will come join us. My pies are AMAZING. No one can stay away.”

Eric rolled his eyes.  More people. Yay. There was a startled curse from up ahead and some hurried splashing.  He raised an eyebrow. Shuri pushed aside the last bush to reveal a staircase leading down a steep orange stone cliff to a beach of sparkling black sand - volcanic glass, rich in iron, Erik realized.  Were the mountains surrounding them volcanoes? The Ethiopian rift WAS one of the most geologically active places on the planet, and they were at the southernmost end of it here…

A couple of blushing teenagers were half submerged in the water.  The girl had her shirt on backwards and was trying to tug it into place as Erik’s group descended.  “Hey, princess,” the boy called out, unashamed.

“Hey yourself!”  Shuri replied. “Mind if we share your waters?”  

“Enter and be welcome,” the boy replied, spreading his hands with an exaggerated flourish.

“Trade you some of the pastries we brought for some of that pie you mentioned?” The girl bantered, giving up on straightening her shirt.

“Hmm, what type of pastries? My pie is very, very good.  Yours worth it?”

“Slow roasted waterfowl and lentils wrapped in sweet dough.”  The girl replied. “It’s AMAZING.”

“The crust is like a cloud,” her partner added, “light but butter rich, flaking away like the softest of mica as you bite.”

“What does mica have to do with a cloud?”  The girl elbowed him, giggling. “Seriously, it does not taste like rock.”

He gasped theatrically and grabbed her hands to kiss her palm “I merely meant that it is flakey, with layers so thin you can see through them, and which dissolve into pure flavor in the mouth.  So delicate it seems they could only have been made by the gods, not mere mortals such as us.”

Shuri laughed and gave them a thumbs up.  “Excellent recovery! You have a deal. Two slices of my egg-cream pie for two of your meat pastries.”

“We can cut them in half for you so you can each have some.” The girl added.  “I’m Uleka,” she pointed to herself, then waved over at her boyfriend. “He’s M’Bane.  We have a dozen or so others joining us here in an hour or so too.”

“Fair enough!”  Shuri laughed. “Your friends will be welcome.  More of my family will probably be joining us in a bit too.”  Erik wondered if she didn’t introduce them because she was used to everyone knowing her family already, or if she was avoiding drawing attention to him.

M'Bane frowned and stilled, looking serious and far, far too adult for a moment.  Erik was reminded of W’Kabi, and suddenly very convinced that M'Bane was a warrior of the Border Tribe.  “Why are you hiding up here, your highness? Are you expecting a problem at the main beach?”

“No problems don’t worry.” Shuri waved it off.  “Mother is down there now. The little one just doesn’t like crowds, so we’re staying up here to save everyone’s ears from his howling.”

Erik glared at her, feeling insulted for some reason he couldn’t put a finger on.

M'Bane glanced over at Erik as if for confirmation, and then relaxed with a smile.  Uleka perked up. “Is that the new prince?” she asked eagerly. “No one I know has seen him yet.  How old is he? Can I hold him?”

Did everyone know about his kid?  Erik realized Shuri and Okoye were eyeing him sideways, waiting for him to decide.  “If you come out of the water and sit down?” he suggested awkwardly.

Uleka grinned and waded towards the shore.  M'Bane followed with a loose, relaxed pose that clearly screamed ‘bodyguard ready for action’ as he kept his eyes on Erik (much to Okoye’s apparent amusement).  He clearly knew who Erik was. There was serious respect there, even deference, but he wasn’t sure he wanted his girl near Erik.

Definitely Border Tribe.  And Erik would bet his left arm that M’Bane had been Erik’s once.  Maybe he hadn’t been at the fight at the mine - Erik didn’t remember anyone there that young - but at some point he had seen Erik as his commander.  And to some extent, he still did. Which meant that his friends were probably Border Tribe too, and had chosen Erik over the royal family. Which might make things...awkward when they showed up.  Especially when the rest of the royal family arrived. Unless everyone in the country was as laid back about betrayal and civil war as Okoye and W’Kabi, which was admittedly a possibility, since no one seemed to think the two of them were being strange.  Erik glanced over at the General, who didn’t seem the slightest bit worried. In fact, she was looking at M’Bane with what could only be termed fond approval. Erik decided not to worry about it.

Uleka sat down on one of the many giant mangrove roots that arched up out of the sand. Had the soil beneath the roots been washed away by floods or was that simply the way the trees grew, like the knobby Cypress knees of Louisiana swamps?

“What’s his name,” Uleka asked as Okoye walked towards her.  Erik sighed.

“He doesn’t have a name yet,” Okoye explained.

“Oh, I’ve read about that,”  Uleka smiled. “Some outside cultures don’t name kids until they are a couple years old, right?  Because if they are named, evil spirits might be able to find them, right?”

Erik stared at her. Outside cultures, what the fuck.  “Sure,” he said flatly. Whatever. There was no point in arguing, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her the whole sordid story.

Okoye sat down besides her.  Erik frowned as his son looked over at Uleka with wide eyes and then hid his face in Okoye’s crimson armor, pudgy hands digging into the cloth as if trying to bury himself in her chest.  This was not going to go well. He clenched his hands and forced himself not to move as Okoye gently but firmly pried him loose and set him on Uleka’s lap. His son froze, hunched over and staring at the ground. Uleka smiled adoringly down at him - she was a good kid, obviously, she just didn’t realize what she was up against- and wrapped her arms around him.  “Hey there,” she cooed. “I’m Auntie Uleka. Aren’t you a cutie? I’ve been out swimming in the river. It’s really nice and cool. It’s hot out here though. I bet you’re enjoying it though, right? My brothers loved being outside when they were your age. They’d have never come in if Mom hadn’t made them.” She jiggled her knee a bit, obviously trying to get Erik’s son to look up at her, and that was it.  The boy exploded, screaming and wailing with all his might, little hands flailing. Uleka jumped and panicked herself, jiggling her knee more and trying to pat his back, which only made him scream louder.

Erik was barely paying attention, because a sensation like ice water had spilled down his spine, every nerve lit up in warning.  They were being watched. He’d always had a good sense for danger, but ever since he’d consumed the heart shaped herb, his intuition had passed “good” and moved into “ridiculously accurate.”  There was something very dangerous up the cliff that marked the northern end of the beach, and they’d attracted its full attention. The cliff there was much higher than the one with the staircase - 100 feet, easy - and it was covered in large bushes and grasses growing out of the cracks and ledges, making it impossible to spot the danger. There were a couple big trees growing out of it too, reaching far out over the water and sending the cliff beneath into speckled shadow that danced in the breeze.  It was a damn good place to hide.

Okoye had taken his son back and was holding him close, humming.  It wasn’t doing any good, the howls now interspaced with loud gasping sobs.  “I didn’t do anything,” Uleka stammered. “Is he okay? What’s wrong with him?”

“Separation anxiety,”  came a voice from the stairs.  Erik looked over to see T’challa’s fiancée - N’kia?  Nakia? - almost to the beach, two Dora Milaje at her back.  Why did she get guards when Shuri didn’t? Or were they just friends?  “He’s had a hard time of it - it’s actually really good that he’s willing to express it when he’s uncomfortable now.  Don’t discourage him.” Erik paid a bit more attention to her. That’s right, she was a war dog, wasn’t she? So she knew how to deal with traumatized kids.

“Nakia!” Shuri exclaimed with delight.  That answered that.

“N’Jadaka, you should take him.”  Nakia reached over and plucked the child from Okoye, who frowned unhappily but didn’t object.

What? “He barely knows me!”  Erik protested.

“You rescued him.  You carried him, on foot, across half a nation.  He may not know you, but I am sure he associates you with safety.”  Nakia plopped the screaming child against Erik’s chest and Erik instinctively shot his hands up to clutch him tight.  And just as instinctively turned so his back was to the danger on the cliff.

There was one last loud sob, and then some quiet snuffling.  The kid was a quiet warmth against him, all soft skin and plump flesh, heart a comforting flutter against his chest.  Erik stared. He hadn’t held his son since he’d woken up in Wakanda. It had just seemed like a bad idea. It wasn’t like he was going to be around all the time like a real father.  Better the kid get used to W’Kabi and Okoye, so there wasn’t more trauma when Erik was taken away, or had to run. He swallowed hard.

“It’s not good for him to be dependent on me.”  Erik was sure of that, at least.

Nakia shrugged.  “He’s been traumatized.  He’s young, he’ll heal, but you’ll need to work with what he needs, not what is normal for his age.  Right now, it’s more important to make sure he feels safe than get him socialized. Once he feels safe enough to express himself all the time, you can work on getting him comfortable with new people.  He needs socialization, clearly - and that’s going to be noisy and heartbreaking, frankly, because he’s not going to want to - but I’d wait a bit, so he gets a break to feel safe and comfortable here before you push him into it.”  She paused. “I hadn’t expected you to come today or I’d have warned you, sorry. T’Challa asked me to keep an eye on how he’s doing and I have been, I just hadn’t found time to sit down with you and come up with a treatment schedule yet.  Good job keeping him away from the crowds though.”

Erik frowned at her.

“Shuri told me when she changed the picnic location,” Nakia explained.

“You know a lot about this then?”

“I’ve been reading up on child psychology for my job; and I do deal with traumatized kids a lot, although usually not long term.  I’m not an expert but we haven’t found an expert politically neutral enough to bring in yet. T’Challa’s even considering bringing someone in from outside, if you know anyone.”

Erik hadn’t realized any of the Wakandans had even noticed there was something odd about his kid.  “Thanks,” he said quietly.

“Is he okay now?” Uleka asked.  “I’m sorry if it was anything I did…”

“Nah,” Erik sighed.  “He’s just had a hard life, doesn’t like new things much.  I thought it would be a good thing for someone new to hold him; sorry about that.”

“Would he like a treat?”  M’Bane asked hesitantly. “I doubt he’d like the pastries - they are spicy - but we have a fruit salad as well.  Mint and green melon, with citrus. It was one of my favorite foods when I was that age.”

“A reward for expressing himself and then calming down.  Good idea,” Nakia smiled at M’Bane, who flushed and hurried over to their packs.  Erik barely kept himself from rolling his eyes. The feeling of danger was fading away, although he still felt like they were being watched.

The salad, when it was brought over, smelled amazing.  Erik kinda wished Shuri had traded for it instead of the pastries, mica-like flakes or not.  He picked up a chunk of melon and held it to his son’s lips, but the kid just turned his face away and nuzzled against his chest.  Erik had dealt with that before though. He clicked his tongue a few times to get the kid to look up, then took a bite and hummed appreciatively, feeling a bit like an idiot with everyone watching him.  When he held it out again, his son grabbed it awkwardly in his pudgy fist and stuffed it in his mouth. Then held out his hand for more. Erik handed him a couple pieces in a small bowl and let him feed himself.  Although he spent about half the time just mashing it up. Apparently he really liked the feel of cool melon pieces squishing in his fist. Erik’s shirt was covered in melon juice by the time his son decided he was finished and yawned, cuddling close before falling asleep, a bit of melon still clutched in his tiny little hand.  Oh well, he was here to swim anyhow. It’d clean. His son snuffled and snuggled closer. It was kind of adorable, and apparently everyone else agreed. They had stopped watching him like he was the day’s entertainment once the kid ate the first piece, and were now chattering about something or another a few meters away, but they kept glancing back at him and smiling.

“Hey, General,”  he called softly.  Okoye looked up and nodded, walking over.  “Could you take him for a bit, so I can get clean?”

“I would be honored,” she nodded, blank faced as usual, but this time he had the feeling that she actually meant it.

“Thanks,” he replied, handing the kid over before slipping off his sandals and heading towards the water, hot sand grinding up between his toes.

“Shit!” he swore under his breath as he stepped in.  It was really REALLY fucking cold. The entire city did this for fun?

Someone giggled behind him.  It was Uleka, the little bitch.  Although, didn’t her name mean laughter?  Maybe she couldn’t help it.

“Move towards the center,” Shuri suggested.  “The water comes off the glaciers of Jabari lands, so it the river itself is barely above freezing, but there are hot springs in the middle, so the deeper in you go, the warmer the water is.”

“Just don’t dive deep too fast,” M’Bane added.  “Especially if you see bubbles. The wellsprings are near boiling; don’t get too close.”

Because everything in Wakanda is ridiculous and capable of killing you.  Right. Erik walked in a few more steps till the water was up to his knees and then dove down, bracing himself against the shock as the icy water hit his sun warmed skin, and then pushing himself down and out along the bottom towards the swifter current mid stream.

What’d you know, Shuri was right.  So was M’Bane - he hit a stream of water that was so hot it was almost painful to the touch, and stroked back up to the surface, the layers of temperature sloughing past him like … actually, he didn’t have anything to compare it to.  Kinda neat, anyhow.

When he broke the surface, he saw that the current had carried him a fair bit downstream, and his muscles were already protesting the sudden use after so many days of limited activity.  He gritted his teeth and stroked back towards the shore. Nice as the hot water felt, he was too weak to fight the heart of the current for long; he’d never be able to stay near the beach, and he didn’t really feel like being washed downriver and having to deal with the rest of the city on his own.  Besides, if he remembered correctly, there was a sharp, narrow bend in the river before the open area where he expected everyone else was gathering; it was probably pretty turbulent. (Odds were it mixed the waters enough to be a more even temperature, and was why everyone else was further downriver.  The water he had fought T’Challa in hadn’t been particularly cold.)

It probably wouldn’t be actually dangerous if he stayed out here - he was a good swimmer, and not THAT weak - but he just wasn’t in the mood for fighting the current today.  In fact, what he wanted to deal with was whatever was up that damn cliff. He wasn’t feeling any danger from it anymore, but the feeling of being watched had followed him into the river, so it was definitely watching him, not the princess or his kid.

He passed out of the warmth into a stream of cold that stole his breath like a punch to the stomach, but by that point it was shallow enough he could stand, and he forged out of the water like W’Kabi’s rhino.  Damn, but the blazing sun felt AMAZING now. Okay, he could see why people did this. Shuri, Uleka, M’Bane, and the two Dora Milaje were tossing a ball around in the water about half way out to the hot spring; they were chest deep, so it was probably around the edge of where it started to warm up.  His son was still sleeping in the General’s arms, in the deep shade thrown by one of the larger mangroves, and Nakia was sitting across from them, chatting. He walked towards them, shedding water with each step.

“You okay to keep him for a bit?” he asked softly, careful not to wake his son.  “Thinking about taking a walk for a bit to dry off.”

“I will watch him,”  she said simply.

“Thanks,”  he said, and meant it.

Walking up the beach towards the cliff face left him in plain sight, but whoever was up there already had eyes on him, and it’d probably look more suspicious if he ducked out somewhere and disappeared.  Better to just be casual.

It didn’t take long before he was standing at the foot of the cliff, looking up.  He could swear the damn thing felt  _ amused  _ now.  He could climb it easy, but it was smooth enough that he’d be slow and vulnerable.  He could easily jump up to the first tree about 20’ above - yay for glowy flower superpowers - but he wasn’t sure how strongly the thing was rooted into the cliff, and the last thing he wanted to do was bring the whole cliff face down on his head.

Something long and black slithered through the leaves to dangle loosely in the breeze.  Like a damn cat toy, Erik thought in reluctant amusement, snorting as his caution faded away.  Well, he did wear the panther suit one time, so he supposed he couldn’t be blamed for taking the bait and pouncing.  He leapt, careful to grab the dangling hand so the claws wouldn’t pierce his flesh if they engaged for some reason. T’Challa rolled backwards and pulled him up.

Eric landed in a smooth crouch, palm down on the rough bark.  The air inside the canopy was cool and damp, full of rustling leaves and the rich incense of tree resin.  He looked over at T’Challa and had to laugh; from his position, he must have been lying outstretched along the branch before rolled back to pull Erik up; fully armored as he was, he had probably looked exactly like the great cat he was named for, lazing away the afternoon till it was time for the evening hunt. T’Challa tapped the necklace, and the helmet faded away.

“You hiding?”  Erik asked with a smirk.

“Not of my own choice,” T’Challa sighed with a little groan.  “It is considered bad luck for the Black Panther to be seen today.”

Erik cocked an eyebrow.

“I am supposed to be away from the celebration, watching the water borders, to ensure everyone is safe from those,”  T’Challa gestured upstream. Curious, Erik leaned over to look. Around the corner from the beach, there were a dozen or so huge black stones that the water splashed around, but nothing else of note… T’Challa grabbed something from the bag next to him - was that raw meat? - and tossed it down.  The water erupted in a flurry of splashes, giant reptilian jaws slicing upward before being knocked aside by an even bigger set of jaws.

“Jesus, those are big crocs,” Erik muttered, and then one of the rocks MOVED, a giant jaw at least three times the size of the crocodiles’ spreading wide to reveal a pair of two foot long fangs.  The hippo roared, and the crocodiles scattered. The rest of the hippos shifted around a bit and then went back to their grazing.

Erik stared for a minute longer, then turned back to T’Challa.  “So, theoretically you’re stationed here to fight off those oversized monsters of the deep - why you’re suited up, I assume,” T’Challa nodded “and instead you be lazing around feeding them.  From up a tree. Out of a bag of meat that I assume you brought specially for them, ‘less you’re taking the cat theme way too seriously.”

T’Challa snorted.  “You see that line across the river?  It’s a vibranium net. Reinforced with a three layer force field.  It would hold even if every animal on the planet hit it at once. I am only here in obedience to tradition.  And I am bored. Until you arrived, the only thing I had to watch was those children’s courtship, and I was trying very hard NOT to watch that.  Speaking of which, why you stop here?”

Erik stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged.  “Didn’t think the kid'd take to a load of strangers.”

“Aaaah.”  T’Challa looked sympathetic.  “Is that what happened earlier?”

“Yeah.  He didn’t like the girl holding him.”  He hesitated. “You got pretty riled up by that.  Hadn’t even noticed you til then.”

T’Challa shrugged.  “I couldn’t tell what had happened.  And…I do not know them well. I have lost family to assassins before.”

“Your father.”

“And my mother's brother, who was taken nine years back.  And...my uncle.”

Erik decided not to take that bait, although he supposed that regular assassinations explained the Dora Milaje.  He’d have to start being more careful with his son, especially when the General wasn’t around.

“And M’Bane’s one of mine, so you don’t trust him.”

“Yes.  Logically that should mean that they would not harm your son, but… It is hard to tell how people will react when things don’t go as they expect.”

Erik leaned past T’Challa and grabbed what looked like a chicken drumstick out of the bag.  He tossed it down and watched the water erupt with thrashing again.

“How come you let me find you?”

“For some reason, I didn’t think you were the type to be horrified that I was breaking an ridiculous and outdated tradition.  Was I wrong?”

Erik snorted.  “You got me.” Outside culture. That’s him.

He looked down at the hippos, mild irritation overcoming him.  Hippopotamuses are always looking for a fight, and those giant fangs are seriously nasty; he wouldn’t want to go up against one even with the power of the heart-shaped herb. 5,000-odd lbs of weight plus a 2,000 psi bite - he was faster than them, definitely, and he could probably toss one with the right leverage, but if he got knocked down in the slippery mud, it could just sit on him until he drowned.  With the suit it probably wouldn’t be a problem though. The suit had its own air supply, and claws. Just let the damn thing bite and then slit its throat. Or hamstring it and push it off if he wound up underwater. The crocs wouldn’t be a problem at all in the suit. Their bite had double or triple the force of the hippos’, but that wasn’t even close to the pressure needed to damage the suit. And they were fast, but the Black Panther was still faster, and stronger. He could probably sling them around like skipping stones.

“So what’s this about anyhow?  Why’s everyone here just before the rains?”

“The rains bring death,”  T’Challa spread his hands.  “And life. They will scour the hillsides, bringing flash floods that sweep away all in their path.  Trees. Rocks. Animals. Humans. The river will swell till it overflows its banks and sweeps across the valley.  The creatures of land will flee up the mountains, and those of the water will spread out across the plains. Those that eat grass will gorge themselves on the fields where we grow our crops in the dry season, and those that eat flesh will find an ample supply in the rotting bodies of those killed by the flooding upriver, as their corpses float downstream to tangle in the branches of our trees and bushes. In ancient times, it was a time of starvation.  The waters were full of threats - submerged logs, moving rocks, poison snakes and vicious predators… they were lethal to enter, but there were no crops to eat, no animals to hunt, so if there hadn’t been enough crops put away earlier in the season, we had no choice but to try. So those who work in the waters are particularly respected for their skill and bravery. But the waters also bring the mud that allowed our crops to flourish. They kill the weeds, and fill the soils with enough moisture to let us feed ourselves throughout the entirety of the dry season.  They barricade the city for months during which no enemy can attack. And the gravel they carry fills the crevasse at the falls, so the poison gases slow and dissolve into the waters far below, instead of bubbling up into the atmosphere.”

“Poison gases?”

“You did not notice the smell at Warrior Falls, when you challenged me?”

Erik frowned. “Sulfur.”

“Hydrogen Sulfide.  The falls mark the fissure where the continent is being pulled apart.”

“The Ethiopian Rift,” Erik interrupted.

T’Challa smiled. “Yes. The Earth’s crust is very thin here.  So thin, that after strong earthquakes, the bottom of the crevasse splits and magma bubbles up from the bottom, under the waters.  There are signs that in the past the entire crevasse has filled with lava, till it spilled out over the top and spread across the land. Then the continent pulled apart further, and the stone cracked again, reopening the fissure.  But even when the land is still, volcanic gases seep up from the bottom. Normally the gravel slows their passage enough for them to dissolve into the water, where they do little harm, but over the course of the year, as the gravel wears away, they bubble through the water to the surface, filling the bottom of the falls with lethal smoke. It is at its most deadly now; if you had chosen this season for your attack, I would have been dead before I hit bottom.  As it is, I was lucky that the Jabari were well versed in its treatment. Although that is not too surprising; I’m sure seepage of volcanic gases are a problem in their mountains as well.”

Right.  Wakanda, where everything tries to kill you in ridiculous ways.

“Didn’t choose the timing,”  Erik shrugged. “Had to move when Klaue did.”

“Then I suppose I am in the extremely awkward and uncomfortable position of being forced to be grateful to him.”

Erik snorted.

“In any case, we come to the water to thank it for the previous year of life, and celebrate the coming death and rebirth of the lands. And it is the last time it is safe to play in the waters for several months.  It is hot year round here; we are fond of our waters.”

“I am looking forward to the rain,”  Erik admitted.

“Don’t,”  T’Challa suggested wryly.  “It does cool things down a bit, but the humidity is miserable.  The first couple days, it feels like trying to breath water. We all walk around gasping like pet fish begging for dinner.”

“Been in rainforests before,” Erik shrugged.  A line of seven scars, up his left calf. “I’ll adjust.  You get mosquitoes here?”

“Somewhat.  They can come in from outside lands, but they do not like the taste of vibranium-laced blood.  You may get bitten this year; I suspect that by the next, you will have eaten enough of our foods that they will avoid you.”

Erik gave a low whistle.  “That’s a nice side effect.  Would’ve given a lot for that a few years back.”

T’Challa grinned.  “I have always appreciated it when I travel.”

“So how long are you stuck up here for?”

“Everyone is supposed to leave the water at sunfall.  I will confirm the river is empty, then we will release the barriers and allow the animals back into their homes.”

Erik frowned.  “Your sister indicated this was a multi-day thing.”

“Yes, and tomorrow I will be back here well before dawn, driving the predators out of the swimming areas again.  By hand, because tradition is ridiculous. And then I will spend another day here, bored.”

Erik snickered, and glanced back at the beach.  A handful of kids had arrived - M’Bane’s friends, most likely.  No one was looking their way. This was such a bad idea. But...he really didn’t feel like he needed to suck up anymore.  By now it was all too apparent that T’Challa had meant it when he said he was welcome here, and more than that, he’d made it public.  Everyone knew. T’Challa wasn’t going to rescind that just because Erik was an ass to him.

“Maybe I’ll come visit again tomorrow.  Can’t have a bored king,” Erik drawled lazily.  “So what kind of crocs are those anyhow. Nile crocs?  They got the head shape, but the nose seems too narrow,”  Erik pointed.

T’Challa leaned over to look.

Erik swiped his leg out and PUSHED.

The expression on T’Challa’s face was hilarious for the second it was visible before the panther mask slid over his face just as he hit the water.

Erik grinned and leaned back against the trunk to wait as splashing erupted again below.  T’Challa was going to be furious when he got back up here, but damn that had been worth it.  Bet he wasn’t bored anymore either.


	5. Maybe I ought to apologize for that

While he waited, Erik poked through the bags T’Challa had brought with him.  A bundle wrapped carefully in cotton turned out to hold a box of meat skewers and bread, with a milky yellow tart.  Curious, Erik pinched off a piece and popped it in his mouth. Cardamon, vanilla, and sugar in an egg and cream base. “This the cream pie Shuri was bragging about?”

“Don’t you have anything more worthwhile to do than meddle with my things?”

Erik grinned and looked back.  The panther suit was plastered with mud and weeds, and its wearer hadn’t done much better.  There was a greenish slime in T’Challa’s hair that Erik didn’t even want to wonder at the source of.  T’Challa bared his teeth at him in what could, with a bit of imagination, possibly be described as a smile.

Erik widened his eyes innocently.  “You still bored?”

“THAT is your excuse?”

“Nah.  My excuse is you being stupid. You asking for it wasjust a bonus.”

“Stupid for trusting you at my back?  If that was an assassination attempt, then I have vastly overestimated you.”

Erik snorted.  “What else you got in here?”  He shook the bag. “You planned to be stuck up here all day, you gotta have brought something worth doing.”

“Have you any desire to read the River Tribe’s complaint about how the Mining Tribe’s exploratory tunnels have destabilized underground heat patterns and affected the water temperature?  Or to research out why the transport system needs to replace twelve of the fourteen trolleys they built last year, and how quality check didn’t notice the error when we first built them? I have the school budget here, as well, if that is more to your interest.  Those are all in the kimoyo beads in the front pocket. It’s what I’m supposed to be doing with my time. Instead of feeding the wildlife.”

“Not my shtick.  Anything more interesting planned?”

“Actually,” T’Challa hesitated.  “You are welcome to refuse, but I would take advantage of your presence in three days, if you agree.”

Erik cocked an eyebrow.

“There is a political delegation coming.  To discuss the … limits of the aid their countries are willing to donate to our outreach centers.  Otherwise known as the bribes they are willing to offer for our goodwill and a chance at whatever technology we decide to release.  There will be delegates from the US, the EU, and China. Among the Americans is the CIA agent Everett Ross. I am...fond of him. He saved Nakia, once.  And he is amusing. I consider him a friend, to what extent politics allow.” T’Challa paused, and smiled slightly, ironically. “I wish to discredit him. Badly.  Enough that his reputation will not recover.”

“This is a friend?”

T’Challa ignored him.  “He was here when you first arrived; identified you as American military, then helped Shuri get my mother out of the city to safety.  I am certain that he reported your presence to his superiors...and your death at my hands. I would have him - and those of his superiors who will be accompanying him - see you here.   Alive, respected - powerful.” T’Challa spread his hands. “No one would ever believe anything he said of Wakanda again.”

“And you’re doing this to a guy you like because…”

“I do not wish to place him in the position of having to choose between his loyalty to me as a friend, and his loyalty to his country.  If no one will believe anything he reports about me, if everyone KNOWS that I will lie to him whenever it suits me, then he can not betray me.  There would be no point in anyone ordering him to try. It will be safe - safer - for both of us.”

Erik gave a low whistle.  “Yeah, I’m up for that. Feeling a bit sorry for him, but I’m always up for making a CIA goon piss himself.  I got free rein?”

“Do not start a war, but yes.  I have no true need of any of their support.  This is mainly to drive home that the outside world does not know us, and will not be able to predict us.  But it is necessary that they do not see Wakanda as a threat.”

“I’ll make it clear that I ain’t under your command.”

“I appreciate it.”

“It’s true.”

“I’m aware.  That is why I  _ asked  _ .”

“Can I bring W’Kabi, couple of his guys?”

T’Challa looked at him sideways.  “I don’t know. Can you?”

Erik thought about it for a moment.  “Yeah. Suppose I can.” He flicked a piece of mossy bark towards the water, watched it fall.  “Feel like maybe I ought to apologize for that. Ain’t feeling it though.”

“If I cannot hold their loyalty, then perhaps I do not deserve it.  At least for now. Perhaps I can earn it back in the future.” His eyes caught Erik’s and held, serious, without the teasing light from their earlier conversation.  “If they are yours, then you owe them your protection. Will you honor that? Can I trust you with their lives?”

Erik shrugged.  “Hell if I know.”

T’Challa studied his face for a moment.  “They are not bad people,” he said softly.  “W’Kabi is young. And has never been outside our borders.  He is...innocent, in ways I am not, I think. You find him easy to manipulate, but I think you would be able to hold his loyalty even if you were honest instead.”

“Fine words from the guy who lost him.”  Erik tossed another piece of bark into the water with a twisted grin.  “I’ll hold him as long as I can. He’s useful. But you’ll get him back eventually.  Eventually he’ll realize I ain’t who I told him I was. Much less who he’s convinced himself I am.  Like you said, he ain’t stupid. Just naive.”

T’Challa laughed.  “I don’t think that is what he is mis-seeing, cousin.”  

“Why’re you so casual about all this betrayal and division anyhow?  This is literally how civil wars begin.”

“Civil wars usually do not involve the leaders of both sides sitting up a tree tossing chicken bits to hungry crocodiles,” T’Challa pointed out wryly.

“I could do it.  It’d be EASY.”

T’Challa sighed.  “A civil war would be of no benefit to you.  If Wakanda were weakened by internal strife, we would be vulnerable to Hydra.  To the outside powers I am now negotiating with. To the Jabari, even. And that would place your son at risk, for no possible reward.”

“A throne.”

“You could not take it.”

“That sounds like a challenge.”

“Please do not take it as such...Although I would be honored if you would consent to sparring with me, when you are more recovered.  There is no one else in the country in the same… weight class, as the Black Panther. Okoye does her best, but...” he shrugged.

Erik snorted.

T’Challa smiled.  “In case it should come up...I should probably mention that Ross is a pilot, and was the one who shot down your flyers.”

Erik’s eyes narrowed.  “If that’s supposed to be motivation for me to mess with him worse, I’ll take it.  And I’ll take you up on that spar later.”


	6. They have spurned every advance

T’Challa pulled a loosely woven length of cloth from the bag and began efficiently scrubbing the gunk off his hair and face. Erik leaned back and watched silently, wondering for the hundredth time about the cousin he knew so little of. How much of that smooth grace was the herb versus the man? How much of that arrogant calm was due to his birth versus being raised by the General as she was rising to prominence? He couldn’t imagine that she’d put up with much in the way of laziness, or gave much credit to normal human frailties such as exhaustion or lack of inborn talent. Although impossible was obviously a word that didn’t hold much weight with any of the the royal family. Erik felt his gut clench again.

Impossible was only for people like him. The regular folk, who didn’t get super powers and legendary teachers, just the school of hard knocks and maybe the occasional helping hand. It burned. It burned so damn much, to know that T’Challa had never had to struggle, never known despair. Even now, with half his army loyal to another, T’Challa wasn’t worried. He knew that he had nothing to worry about. Erik needed T’Challa, so the Border Tribe was essentially still under T’Challa’s complete control. Heck, Erik’s presence probably made everything easier for him. As long as the Border Tribe listened to Erik, T’Challa only had to convince Erik to serve him, instead of several hundred disparate individuals, each of whom probably had their own very good reason for losing faith in the throne. And it made him seem brave and magnanimous. Mighty. Like he truly had the blessing of some pagan god.

Everything T’Challa represented, Erik still hated. Even if he was coming to kinda like the man. Even if here, in T’Challa’s hands, he had the most honest respect he had ever known. Erik knew the world wasn’t fair. He wasn’t a kid, he wasn’t going to ask for it to be. But god damn, couldn’t it be fairer than this? Why did T’Challa get so much when so many had so little?

Suddenly, T’Challa dropped the towel and spun around to stare back at the beach. Erik felt the shiver of warning a second later. Was T’Challa simply more experienced or did the herb have more of an effect on him, perhaps due to repeated exposure?

The bushes were moving on the far cliff above the beach. At least eight people. Headed towards the stairs. Which...didn’t seem like any reason for a freak out. They were expecting more people to join them right? And that shiver of warning - it wasn’t the ‘danger’ feeling. Just...wary. Or did T’Challa get more information from it as well as the earlier warning? T’Challa crouched...he was going to jump down to the beach? Right after telling Erik how he had to hide up here?

Erik tapped his shoulder. “Problem?”

“Jabari,” T’Challa hissed.

Erik blinked. “Ain’t they your allies?”

“Not in any real sense. The Jabari serve none save their own desires.”

Well, that was pretty fucking prejudiced of T’Challa. Nice of him to immediately justify all the angry things Erik had been thinking. But …. Erik was feeling magnanimous. And spoiling for a fight.

“I’ll take care of it,” Erik pushed T’Challa back slightly. “You can’t be seen, right?”

T’Challa met his eyes, and then, apparently reassured by whatever he saw there, nodded. “M’Baku, their lord. The tall one in front.” Yup, T’Challa was definitely getting more info from the herb’s power than Erik was. “He challenged me as well. Put a spear through my side and came very close to taking me down.”

“I actually did take you down, and I’m a hell of a lot stronger now.” Aww, that was adorable. T’Challa was actually worried about him. Although it was interesting that he automatically assumed it’d lead to a fight. Erik glanced over at his son, still in Okoye’s arms. He’d catch’em on the stairs, or at their foot. Keep the fight to this end of the beach.

“You are not yet healed. And it is said that the Jabari have an equivalent to our heart shaped herb. M’Baku did not seem stronger than a normal man when I fought him, but he could have stripped himself of its powers then, knowing I was required to do the same.”

“Stupid of him.”

“Honorable.”

“Good to know.” Erik hesitated. “You really aren’t allies?”

“I would like to be. I had hoped, after they came to my aid…” T’Challa shook his head. “But they have spurned every advance I have made in the months since. I do not know why. They would not speak of their reasons. That they are here now… I do not like it.”

“Right.” Erik stripped off his shirt and tossed it at T’Challa. “You dropped your towel. Finish cleaning yourself off in case you need to show yourself.”

T’Challa caught it, and nodded slowly. “Thank you.”

“Not like I’ll be needing it. Get better results with these showing,” he gestured at the scars mapping his body.

“N’Jadaka.” T’Challa’s reached into his bag and pulled out a pair of blades. He offered them to Erik, hilt first. “M’Baku once indicated he would be glad to see Shuri dead. I do not know how much was bluster. If a fight breaks out, I will join you.”

Erik nodded. Accepted the blades, buckled their sheaths around his waist so the blades crossed at the small of his back. Not the most efficient, but flashy. He was going for flashy. “I’ll protect her. And the rest.”

He took a step off the branch and let himself fall, landing lightly on the soft sand.

Okoye spotted him immediately as he trotted around the boulders at the bottom of the cliff. Even at this distance, he could see her back stiffen as her eyes caught the lack of a shirt, the weapons at his back. He shook his head to warn her off, held up a hand in the gesture for “stay” - it was pretty universal worldwide; hopefully that was true here as well. She stayed sitting, anyhow, although Nakia stood and moved casually in front of her. GOOD.

Erik had reached the foot of the stairs. No one was visible yet. He grinned widely, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he cupped his hands to his mouth.

“Lord M’Baku!” He yelled. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the playful crowd in the waters freeze, and then the crowd surged forward to reform in two orderly lines, with Shuri behind. Everyone knew about the threat to her then. And yup, lots of Border Tribesmen there. “What brings the Jabari Tribe to our waters!”

The bushes at the top of the stairs rustled. The man who stepped out was huge. And rocking black leather and gray fur. In the heat of the midday sun. It was as outlandish and calculated as Erik’s own bared scars. M’Baku - surely that was him - crossed his arms and glared down intimidatingly. Erik grinned again and started jogging up the stairs. He had a feeling he was going to love this guy.


	7. But no.  He is trash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty please could you read M’Baku’s lines with the intonation Winston Duke uses, lingering over individual words? I did my best, but it’s really hard to write lines for him that don’t sound ridiculous without all those pauses.

M’Baku remained silent and imposing as Erik climbed the stairs, barely blinking. Erik would have prefered to be the one approaching from higher ground, but at least he had stolen the advantage of surprise, and he could tell that minor loss rubbed. Finally he reached the landing at the top, and walked forward just that tiny bit too far, intruding in the other man’s personal space.

M’Baku’s expression never changed. Ah well, worth a try. Erik leaned back slightly, hooking his thumbs in his back pocket. “What’d you want?”

M’Baku ignored him for a few seconds before deigning to look Erik over slowly, head to toe, disdainfully. “You... do not belong here, outsider.” The words curled and danced as they dripped slowly off his tongue. “Begone.”

“Yeah, no. You’re the one who doesn’t belong, Jabari,” Erik drawled, with the same scornful intonation T’Challa had used when speaking of the Jabari earlier. “State your business.”

“I will do, no business, with you. Summon another.”

“I am N’Jadaka, son of Prince N’Jobu. I speak for King T’Challa. With his authority and by his request. You speak with me, or you leave.”

M’Baku fell silent for a moment, then crossed his arms with a grunt. “Why do you yet live, kinslayer? You would better serve Wakanda as food, for the worms.”

“Death didn't want me,” Erik said, showing teeth. “And I don’t serve Wakanda.”

M’Baku snorted. “Your every word pollutes the air. Has the king’s brain rotted to slime, that he cannot see it? Like a melon left too long on the vine.” He pinched his fingers together. “Squish. A pity in one so young. His people had such high hopes for him.”

Erik rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Your business?”

“Is with the king.”

“No can do.”

M’Baku frowned. “I did not think him one to show such discourtesy.”

“Bad luck for the Black Panther to be seen today. He’ll be pissed if you make him show. Or,” Erik spread his hands in invitation and shrugged “you just go through me.”

M’Baku turned towards the beach and looked down on the party-turned-militia, which had regrouped on the shore near Erik’s son. “Then I have no need for him. It was only courtesy that I called on him first. I will speak.” He nodded sharply. “With General Okoye.”

Erik frowned. “About what?”

“It is personal.”

“Ain’t no such thing.” Erik straightened. “She’s MINE. Talk.”

“She is NOT yours. You are a weed. That would wither and die in the shade of her branches. You could never hold the loyalty of one such as she.”

“That sounds almost admiring.”

“There is much to admire about her.”

Erik narrowed his eyes, suddenly suspicious. “General Okoye is married. Happily married.”

“For now,” M’Baku nodded agreeably.

“I’d explain in great, graphic detail exactly what I’d do to you if you harmed W’Kabi. But you know? I’d never get the chance. ‘Cuz the General’d gut you before you got close.”

“He is a traitor. And does not deserve her.”

“He chose loyalty to his honor, and to his nation, over loyalty to his leader. That ain’t no traitor.”

“I am sure you would like to believe that. But no. He is trash. She deserves better.”

“She’s made her choice.”

“And it is her right to choose again, if she wishes. I will not force anything. I am merely here to make sure she is aware of her options.”

Erik raised an eyebrow sardonically. “You.”

“Me.” M’Baku smiled wolfishly. “And a throne. By my side.”

“She’s not interested. Get lost.”

“YOU do not speak for her.”

“But today I speak for T’Challa, and he does have the right to speak for her. Leave this place, Jabari. You are not welcome here.” Erik was vaguely aware that T’Challa was probably going to be pissed off that Erik was thoroughly destroying his effort at forging diplomatic relations. Also, when had his his life turned into a bad rom-com?

“I will not go. Not without speaking to General Okoye.”

“Not an option.”

“I will go through you. If I must.”

“Good luck with that. I took out T’Challa, remember.”

“I do not have his … weaknesses.”

“Nah. You’ve got your own.” Erik slid his hands back to just above the hilts of T’Challa’s blades. “I’ve got the blood of the panther in my veins, and the power of the heart shaped herb in my bones. She ain’t worth it, man.”

“Oh, but she is. I am sure of it.”

The bushes rustled and the other Jabari stepped forward to form a half circle around the two of them, oddly formal. Did the Wakandans seriously have a ceremony for a battle to defend one’s subordinate from a suitor going after his wife? Erik shifted his weight down to balance deep in his stomach, body loose and pulse thrumming.

“Enough!” A clear, powerful voice rang out over the cliff edge. A second later Queen Ramonda appeared, twelve Doras and a handful of armed River Tribe warriors in her wake. She had obviously just come from the water herself. She strode forth damp and dripping, but with unshakable command and elegance, like a river goddess temporarily treading the land,  Her clothes were smeared here and there with algae and water weeds, although against the loose, matching green material of her dress they seemed more like decorative accents than grime.

“I have spoken with Okoye. She will hear your suit, but do not expect much to come of it, oh Great Gorilla. As you have said. Her choices are her own.”

“I demand only a chance to be heard,” M’Baku nodded his head with respect.

Erik frowned at her. How had she known…? Apparently she read the question on his face.

“My daughter grew curious,” she said dryly, “and hacked your kimoyo beads so she could listen in on your conversation.”

Erik stared down at the bracelet around his wrist. That was...a disturbing invasion of privacy. M’Baku hissed in disgust.

“Follow,” the Queen commanded imperiously, and swept forward between M’Baku and Erik to descend the stairs. As the Queen’s entourage followed suit, Erik met M’Baku’s eyes, and was relieved to see that he looked as discombobulated as Erik felt. Erik shrugged at him. He wasn’t going to just let W’Kabi get disrespected, but he wasn’t going to move directly against the Queen either. He’d figure out something later. If Okoye didn’t take care of it herself.

By the time they reached the bottom, Okoye was standing there waiting. She was still holding Erik’s son, unfortunately. Why hadn’t she handed him off to someone else? Erik frowned and moved over to stand next to her, where he could block any weapons that headed their direction. A second later his arms were filled with squirming toddler. How the hell was he supposed to fight like this? He glared at the back of Okoye’s head as she stepped out of the ring of warriors and walked forward towards M’Baku, who waited patient and solid as the mountains of his home, unconcerned with how heavily outnumbered he had become.

“The voice of the Jabari has been missed in the council chambers,” she called out, stopping several feet away from him.

He nodded, unabashed. “I could not bear to stay, without making an offer for your hand. And I could not offer, as I was not sure if it was even possible. It has taken some months to convince my people to accept the possibility of a lowlander by my side.” Erik shook his head slightly and settled his son more firmly against his side. Dude was serious.

“And,” M’Baku continued, offhandedly, “I was waiting for you to rid yourself of the two-faced snake. But you have not. So I am here. This is a day to rid oneself of the past and start anew, is it not?”

“And what are you offering, Lord M’Baku?”

“My lands. My love. Your freedom.” He spread his hands. “You move like the summer gales, smooth as silk yet powerful enough to shatter stone and ice. You do not belong here, trapped behind artificial walls and trudging through mud and dust. Come to my mountains, General, where you can fly free.”


	8. My dreams are greater

Okoye smiled slightly.  “You are as skilled with words as you are with your club, M’Baku.”

M’Baku preened, “I am skilled at other things as well,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at her as he grinned back.

Okoye cocked an eyebrow in amusement and shook her head.  “I’ll take your word for it,” she said wryly. “I am honored. But I am a woman of the plains.  I have carved myself a place in history here, unrestricted by the bonds of tradition you prize so highly.  I appreciate your attention – and your offer - but I suspect I would find your lands....limiting, shall we say?”

Erik nodded to himself.  Saying she didn’t want M’Baku was a heck of a lot safer than hinting that it was W’Kabi who stood in M’Baku’s way, if he was truly as ruthless as T’Challa had implied.  Erik had to admit he wasn’t getting that impression though. Warrior, yes, arrogant and a bit of a bully – probably less than Erik himself, admittedly – but M’Baku was coming across as a giant goofball, frankly.  There was a cunning intelligence in those sharp eyes though. And like Erik, he obviously liked to stage his encounters to manipulate people’s impression of him - was it all an act? Erik could have pulled it off, but he knew there weren’t many others at his level.

M’Baku shrugged Okoye’s words aside. “You say such things only because you do not know my people.  What traditions we have, we hold inviolate, ‘tis true, but there are far less traditions binding us than the rules you live under now.  Are you not tired of wearing the same uniform day after day, treading the same tired path over and over? In the mountains we have true freedom.  We are individuals, not building blocks. I have far less power over the lowliest of my people than your king has over even the most powerful of his subjects.  You call this” he waved his hand in the direction of the city, “freedom only because you have known nothing else.”

“My dreams are greater than what I – or any individual- could manage alone.  I need my people beside me. Besides, I am a leader of warriors, weaving together the disparate strengths of many into a whole stronger than the sum of its parts.   What use would I be in a land that scorns my skills?”

“You only dream of group achievements because you have been denied the freedom to dream as an individual.  How can anyone ever reach their true potential as a tiny cog, in a great machine. Imagine what you could become if you were unleashed,” M’Baku countered.

“If my true potential is greater than the path I already walk, I am not sure any nation would survive having me,”  Okoye said wryly.

M’Baku laughed.  “I am strong enough to hold you.  I promise. But if freedom does not interest you, then come to my mountains for me, General.  Because I have honor, and would always respect you.”

“I am respected here.”

“No.  You are not.  Your husband has betrayed you. Your people have betrayed you, by following him.  Your king has betrayed you, by being too weak to hold the country together. Come to me, because none of my people would choose such stupidity.  Come because a husband - or king - who cannot protect his people does not deserve to keep them.”

Erik was pretty sure he could hear T’Challa growling on the other end of the beach.  Given how close the ties between T’Challa, Okoye, and W’Kabi ran, that wasn’t an argument that would win M’Baku any points.

“I need no protection.”

Yup.  The general was pissed.

M’Baku looked at her for a moment, then nodded.  “I misspoke. But my point remains. You have been disrespected. You deserve better than …. Them.”  He waved his hand at their audience.

“You are mistaken,” Okoye said coldly.  “My king, and my husband, acted in accordance with their honor.  As did I. As did we all. I would only have been disappointed if they had not acted.  When people use their brains and follow their conscience, discord is inevitable. I prefer conflict, however painful, to ignorant obedience.”

M’Baku frowned. “Do you call my people idiots?”                                          

“How could I? I do not know your people.  But my people acted out of honor, not cowardice or sloth.  Do not demean us both by pretending otherwise.”

“You truly feel no dishonor in their failure.”

“There was no  _ failure  _ .  I am saddened by my beloved’s choice. I wonder at my own eyes, that I missed seeing such potential in him.  I felt so strongly in in the wrongness of his path that I was willing to die to stop it. I was willing to kill my own people.  I was willing to kill my  _ love  _ . But he acted in accordance with his sworn loyalties, and his own moral code. I cannot ask for more.”

M’Baku spread his arms.  “You truly have no regrets?  Can you say honestly that there is nothing I can offer you?  We would be glorious together, General.” He lingered over each syllable of her title, caressing it.

Okoye blew out a breath, and then took the invitation, looking him over slowly, toes to head, one eyebrow cocked.  “Probably,” she admitted with a smile, relaxing. “But why take the chance? I am happy where I am. That said...” she shrugged wryly, “I have been asked to use your interest to convince you to rejoin the council.  If you wish to pursue this, knowing that it is unlikely to lead anywhere, start attending council meetings again. I will meet with you whenever you come, and treat any arguments or offers you propose with due seriousness.  But there is little likelihood of success. You would be better served to turn your attention elsewhere.”

M’Baku grunted, disappointed but accepting.  “Grant me a greater chance than that. The Jabari  welcome the new year with our own celebrations in ten days.  Will you join me for them, that I can show you what you miss, by staying down here?”

“My time is not my own, as you have noted.  But I go where my king goes. Invite him, and I will be there.”

“So be it.  I will expect you on the eve of the ninth day.”

“Would you join us for dinner, Lord M’Baku?” Queen Ramonda interjected. “Allow us to offer our hospitality and gratitude, to make up for the poor welcome you were met with. You have made a long trip.  Rest for a few hours before you return.”

M’Baku raised a questioning eyebrow at Okoye. “May I share your meal?”

“If you wish.”  She gestured towards the tree she’d been sitting on.  “Come. The celebration will begin shortly.”

M’Baku nodded respectfully, and moved to her side.  They walked towards the seat together.

Erik shook his head, feeling disgruntled and disappointed. Seriously.  What the fuck. What was W’Kabi going to think about his wife playing floozy to some trumped up excuse for a warlord?  What was T’Challa thinking, to ask it of her?

Shuri touched his arm.  “Come on. I’m going to set up closer to the water.”

“Set up?”

“Food, seating.  There’s not that much time before it starts.”

Eric followed, still holding his son, who was quiet and still.  He’d picked up on the tension and was trying to stay unnoticed, Erik guessed.  Well, he certainly wasn’t going to ask the General to take him now. “Before WHAT starts?”  he grumbled, but the princess just grinned and beckoned. She was looking forward to watching him react to whatever it was, Erik realized.  Who knows if she was expecting to laugh at him or if she was just showing off something she thought was particularly cool.

The Queen was already down near the water, talking to Uleka while some of her retinue spread cloth over the sand.  It thickened as it unrolled - some sort of inflatable mattress? She turned as they approached.

“What’d you bring?”  Shuri asked.

“Pickled gourds and dried fruit, with spiced rice.  As you requested.”

“Excellent!”  Shuri clapped her hands together. “It’s been too long since I’ve eaten your cooking.”

“As if I have time.  You have far more interest in food than I, Shuri.”

Shuri shrugged. “It’s edible chemistry.  I like seeing what happens.”

“And I enjoy eating the fruit of your experiments.”  The Queen turned towards Erik. “Welcome, nephew.” Her voice was noticeably cooler.

Erik considered, then ditched a number of less than polite responses.  She didn’t want him here, fine. Heck, Erik wasn’t sure he wanted to be here either. But there weren’t any other options, so they’d just both have to deal.  He just nodded. “Thanks.”

Her eyes grew colder.  “How did you come to be carrying my son’s blades?”

Shuri blinked, startled, and looked down at his waist.  “Those are T’Challa’s?!”

Erik snorted.  “Where’d you think they’d come from?”

“How did you get them?”  Shuri demanded.

“Found ‘em up a tree.”

“And my son?” Queen Ramonda asked.

Erik rolled his eyes.  “What, you think I killed him and then wandered back here for shits and giggles? He’s fine.  Watching us from a couple hundred meters that-a-way,” he waved his hand at the far end of the beach.

Shuri frowned at him.  “He showed himself to you?”

“No need.  I can tell when he’s nearby.  The heart-shaped herb, probably.”  He rolled his eyes when the two women didn’t relax.  “He’s wearing the suit. It’s not like I left him unarmed.  ‘Sides, he coulda stopped me easy, if he’d wanted.”

“Do you expect me to believe anything you say?” The queen asked.

“Now, why would I lie to you, auntie?”  Erik spoke softly, with a too broad smile and cold eyes.

“If my son were here, he would have shown himself when M’Baku arrived.”

“He knew I was planning to handle it.  Why the hell do you think he left me the knives?”

“Speaking of knives, I need one to cut the pie,” Shuri cut in, fake cheerful as she pulled a largish box out of her bag.  Obviously trying to diffuse the tension. “Who wants a piece?”

“No thanks, already had some.”  Erik waved her off with a smirk.

Shuri blinked down confusedly at the whole, uncut pie in her hands, and then it clicked.  “You stole brother’s!!!” she accused.

“You’d think he’d have learned not to leave shit lying around abandoned-like if he doesn’t want me to take it.”

“Wakanda was not ‘lying around abandoned!’” Shuri yelped.

Erik pointed at her. “For the record, I wasn’t the one comparing the country to snack food.  That was all you.”

“You had better not have eaten all his dinner!”

“Um…” Uleka wrung her hands where she had been standing wide eyed and uncomfortable as they argued.  “If the king needs dinner, we could leave a basket out of sight somewhere…”

Erik groaned.  “A) I had like two bites, so relax.  B) Your king is a grown-ass man and missing one meal wouldn’t have hurt him any. And C) All your fidgeting is getting him worried, and having him glare at me is putting me on edge, which is upsetting my son, so will you all just fucking calm down?”

“You can seriously sense what T’Challa’s feeling?” Shuri asked, fascinated.

Erik shrugged.  “Less what he’s feeling than what he’s doing, but yeah.”

“That kind of instant communication could be useful in battle,”  M’Bane commented as he walked up and slipped an arm around Uleka’s shoulder.  Erik glanced back and saw that the Border Tribe kids had dispersed from their vigil over the General and her suitor, and were scattering out over the beach, spreading brightly colored blankets and pillows.  “Here are the pastries we promised you, princess,” M’Bane offered a small box to Shuri.

“Ah, thank you!  Wait a minute, and I’ll get you yours…”

“No need,” Uleka shook her head.  “You can make it for us another time.  It looks like you’ll have some extra mouths to feed …”

“I put some extra in there too,” M’Bane added, nodding at the box.  “But let the Jabari know that they’d be welcome at our tables. No one would turn them away today.”

“Thank you,” Queen Ramonda smiled at them.  “We appreciate your generosity.”

“Oh!”  Uleka exclaimed.  “It’s starting! We’ll see you after, your majesty, your highnesses.”  She tugged at M’Bane’s hand. “Come on.”

They hurried off, and Erik looked around, trying to spot whatever Uleka had seen.  A cool breeze started up as the sun moved behind a cloud. His son shivered slightly and snuggled more deeply into his side.  Erik frowned down at him. Next to him, the royal family and their hanger-ons were sitting down on their mats. Erik ignored Shuri’s gestures of invitation and walked a few steps up the beach to where Nakia and a few of the Dora Milaje had set up.  “Hey,” Erik asked Nakia softly, “whatever is about to happen, is it something noisy that will bother my son?”

Nakia hummed.  “Noisy, no. The holograms can be a bit overwhelming though, so you might want to be prepared to cover his eyes.”

Erik blinked.  “It’s some sort of light show?”

Nakia laughed.  “No one told you?  Yes, that’s one way to describe it, I suppose.  Come sit down and join us. It can be dizzying if you’re standing and moving around.”

“No one tells me anything,” Erik grumbled, dropping down beside her.  “Didn’t even know I wasn’t locked in my room.”

“You were,” Nakia said dryly.

Erik cocked an eyebrow at her.

She laughed.  “T’Challa bought your freedom from the council two days ago, but we were all so busy with the festival...we decided that we would leave you where you were for now and figure out what to do with you once this was all over.  Shuri apparently disagreed.”

“It’s a festival of new beginnings.  Leaving you out of it right after you arrived seemed almost painfully ironic. And if it was Bast’s will that brought you here, excluding you would be idiotically irreverent,”  Shuri announced, plopping down next to them. “Bast’s anger can be terrible. It was my duty to protect the country from that kind of mistake.”

Erik stared at Shuri “You said my door was unlocked.”

Shuri waved it off.  “If it is that easy to open, it does not count as locked.”

Erik blinked, then opened his mouth to bitch at her.

“You’d already been freed legally,” Nakia interrupted softly before he could say anything.  “No one minded her bringing you.”

“Except Mother. But she’s just being stupid,” Shuri grumbled.

“You might have to sleep in the medical center for another day or two until we have time to arrange a place for you to stay,” Nakia continued.  “If you have any preferences, let someone know?”

“Shhh,”  Shuri hissed, pointing at the sky.  “It’s starting!”

The sun was almost completely invisible behind the clouds now, only locatable by the brilliant silver gleam edging the clouds in one particularly dark and billowy area of the sky.  As Erik watched, the glow increased, and then, as if a jar of paint had overturned, the shining silver spilled across the sky in every direction, tiny rivulets rolling across the sky like rivers of mercury, widening and merging together in a violent, churning mass till the whole sky was covered.  The rolling liquid stilled, and became a perfect mirror, reflecting the equally mirror-like water of the river beneath it.

“What the fuck,”  Erik breathed.

“The holographic transmitters that hide Wakanda are massively redundant and overpowered,”  Shuri whispered excitedly. “During festivals, some of them are diverted to face inwards instead of outward, and the most recent graduates from the schools compete to design the shows.”

A few seconds later, bits of liquid metal began to drip from the sky.  At the same time, the water of the river seemed to defy gravity and “rain” upwards to meet them.  The sprinkling of drops became seven thin streams, which gradually transformed into torrent-like waterspouts that poured impossibly into each other.  Meanwhile, the sky-mirror’s reflection of the forest lining the water’s edge began to lose color. Erik looked down and saw the river overflowing its banks and racing towards the calmly seated audience.  Wherever the water met an obstacle, be it rock, human, or tree, it flowed “up“, like water slipping down a stalactite, painting the object in shining crystal. Erik watched the audience turn into shimmering statues.  A moment later, the “waters” reached his own feet. Erik fought off the urge to try to protect his son and sat still as it crested. He felt nothing, but his when he looked down, his legs and arms had become iridescent glass, partially transparent.  He twitched his fingers and waved his arm around, but the illusion held, perfect. He whistled softly. The computing power behind this had to be insane.

A few minutes later, both sky and land were a mass of silver.  The waterspouts slowed, and collapsed back up into the sky. The impression of gravity constantly reversing itself was becoming unnerving.  A second later, the silvery coating pulled back from the trees - but only the trunks and branches, which had turned from dull greenish gray to a stark black.  The leaves remained translucent, almost invisible. Erik was reminded of the description of the land under the Ice Queen's rule in the first Narnia novel. In every direction the forest stood frozen in icy perfection, nothing but elegant death and emptiness as far as the eye could see. And icy wasn’t an euphemism.  The temperature was falling fast. He shivered slightly. “It’ll warm up in a minute,” Shuri whispered. “They increased the strength of the illusion to block all sunlight and make it colder, so we are seeing only with the artificial light of the illusion now. But blocking the sun away messes with the crops and livestock too much, so it’s only allowed for a few minutes at a time.”

“I thought the livestock pastures were on the other side of the city,” Erik whispered back.

“They are.”

Erik stared at her “ How far does the illusion reach?”

Shuri shrugged,  “Everywhere under the shield.” 

Erik closed his eyes in disbelief. “ That’s tens of thousands of square miles!” He hissed.

“Yes.” Shuri looked smug.

“The entire nation is a fucking giant holodeck?”

Shuri grinned smugly.  “Exactly.”


	9. Games

The light began to fade to a single sunset like glow slipping beyond the western horizon, the trees creating long shadows across the reflection in the sky, like zebra stripes, with the reflected river a swath of emptiness cutting across the pattern.  The sunset dimmed further, to a mere pinprick.

“Ain’t it risky?” Erik asked.  “Letting kids mess with the programming of the shield?”

Shuri dug her still translucent hand into the sand and held out a handful, barely visible in the shadows.  “There are literally billions upon billions of projectors floating above us. Each barely larger than the grains of sand on this beach, and each capable of making its own calculations on what to project based on incoming data and nearby visuals.  If one messes up, it’s neighbors hide the error and report the malfunction. So although they do communicate with each other, and the programmers, each projector makes its own judgment on the value of incoming data and decides whether to make changes based on it.  When the students reprogram them, it is more like they provide suggestions and requests; they can’t actually affect the programming, and if a projector believes a request violates their core purpose, they won’t do it.”

“Floating?”

“Vibranium absorbs and redirects force, right?  In this case, they are redirecting the force generated by the planet’s spin.  And gravity, a bit, but mainly the centrifugal force of the spin. They redirect the forces acting on them so they stay in position relative to our location on the Earth.”

The last glimmer of light died, and all was dark and silent except the lapping of the river on the shore.  A row of lights approached from the opposite bank. Lanterns. In their reflection above, Erik could see that they were being carried on large shadows...Rhinos? The group headed down river along the opposite bank, and in their wake, tiny ember-like lights sprouted from the soil.  For a few seconds if was just a faintly glimmering light, and then they multiplied and spread throughout the forest floor. Within a minute, the entire forest opposite them was glowing enough to see the trees clearly.

A row of rough-hewn rafts launched from behind a screen of bushes.  Like the rhinos, they were blazing with row upon row of lanterns. With the added glow of the forest floor, the men polling them could be seen, decked out in festive, multi-colored paint and costumes.  Their poles clunked rhythmically against the sides of the raft, and then they raised their voices in a cheerful chant as they worked.

The rafts too passed downriver, and the sparks left in their wake transformed into swirling schools of glowing fish that darted about in the waters.  A few of the fish came near to the beach where Erik sat, and where they touched the shore, sparks flew and multiplied across the ground, popping up in ever-increasing clusters like a fast-motion video of mushroom growth after rains.  Where the lights touched, the crystal and silver melted away. First on the people (Erik watched his son’s face become visible again and breathed out shakily. Having his son suddenly look so alien and inhuman had been disturbing as fuck, regardless of how impressive the translucency was.  And it was impressive - for each person’s point of view, the projectors had to calculate for not only what was there in front of them and change the colors, but how the background image behind each crystalline individual would warp due to the bending of light through glass.) Then the grass and plants low to the ground became visible. But Erik knew they had been brown and withered when he arrived, and now the grass was the brilliant green of new growth, and the herbs were flush with health. Tiny flowers unfurled as he watched. New growth sprung along the branches of the trees, and brilliantly colored birds and butterflies darted through the sky. Another glow started in the east, and the sky lightened to orange and pink as a fake sun rose and full daylight returned.

“The mirror was a nice touch,” Shuri murmured.  “But they could have done more with it. My class did it better.”

“Yours made everyone dizzy,”  Nakia said dryly.

“How was I to know?  None of the test group had any problems.”

“What was yours,” Erik asked, still feeling disconcerted, a touch out of step with reality.

“We mirrored the sky, but also the sides of the river, like a cube that spun into fractals where the images met.  It was beautiful.”

“Some people threw up,” Nakia countered.

“Not my fault they had weak stomachs!”

“You Inception’ed it?”  Erik asked, snorting.

Shuri just grinned.  “I loved that scene,” she admitted.  “I used it again in the hunt we did on Bast’s honor-day that summer.  She’s a huntress, you know? So we filled the plains with these gorgeous super-powered monsters as prey, and there were all sorts of tricks and obstacles for the hunting parties to overcome.  A couple of them would turn the world into a spinning mirrored cube if you touched them wrong.”

“Monsters?” Erik asked.

“Some people in my group invented their own, but I had fun pulling from world fiction.  You watch anime?”

Erik shrugged.  “Some,” he admitted.

“I got to make brother fight the Kyuubi.  You know, from Naruto? It was hilarious. I have it on video. I’ll show you sometime.”

Okay.  Yeah. That would have been cool.  Erik was pretty damn jealous, actually.But...“How do you fight an illusion?”

“There are robots inside each illusion; as long as the hunters aren’t armed with vibranium, the mix of robot and illusion allows for fairly realistic combat,” Shuri explained.

“Fictional monsters are too easy,” Nakia snorted.  “No one can tell if you design them wrong. Human opponents, like my team did, are much harder to get right.”

“I hear this year’s group is going for non-human again, but with real models. They are planning to recreate the alien attack on New York last year.”

“It’s true.” Nakia nodded.  “W’Kabi asked for it. He wants his people to get experience fighting them in case they return.”

Erik closed his eyes and breathed deep, feeling cold despite the returning warmth of the sun.  “Video games,” he said flatly. “You’re all gamers. That’s why everyone trains to fight, even though you haven’t been to war in millennia.”

“Well, more like LARPers,” Shuri said cautiously, not sure why Erik was bothered.  “And we do end up at war with the Jabari every couple years.”

“Skirmishes.”  Erik pointed out.  “Not war.”

“I suppose,” Shuri shrugged, not sure why it mattered.

Nakia knew better.  “My people have never known war,” she agreed softly, eyes gentle.  “People get injured in the festivals, but you know how good our medical science is.  We are vicious to each other in duels and tournaments, but usually even the worst wounds are gone within a few days.  And on the rare occasions where there is a death, by accident or design, they die cleanly.”

“When I …” Erik began, and then stopped.  What was the fucking point.

“Three of the warriors on the ships died.  Everyone else we were able to save.”

“I slit someone’s throat.”

“The lieutenant lived, although her brain was without oxygen for almost fifteen minutes.  We were able to bring her back, but it damaged something in her brain. She has trouble with balance, and has lost the ability to speak - the words all come out wrong. She was removed from active duty with the Doras, and works in logistics now. I hear she is enjoying designing the training courses for her sisters, even if she can no longer run them.  She is doing okay.”

Clearly it was not a big deal. After everything he’d done.  It was just. Not a big deal. He’d thought T’Challa was being absurdly naive and kind to trust him so much.  Had the kindness actually been the traces of suspicion and caution? To make Erik feel like he’d actually done something of worth?

Shuri stared at him.  “Are you UPSET that there were less deaths than you imagined?” she demanded in astonishment.  “Did you want everyone to die?”

Erik looked at her.  Shiny innocent face, bristling with naivety.  Living happily in Wakanda's pretty little bubble of illusion. She didn't have a clue. None of them did.

“I wanted Wakanda to care.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotten a tumbler (reactivated an old one - http://staidwaters.tumblr.com/)  
> 


	10. What do you think War Dogs are?

"We care. Of course we care!” Shuri said indignantly. “Everyone mourned the three who died. The entire city honored them!”

Erik just looked at her. Clouds of golden glitter were drifting across the sky. More illusion, undoubtedly.

“But nothing changed,” Nakia pointed out softly.

“Everything changed!” Shuri protested. “Brother is opening the borders. You agreed to be Queen, and you and brother are planning to go out and help the world like Wakanda has never done before. There are four times as many War Dogs in training this year than last year. I am giving a speech about our malaria vaccines at a symposium in Stockholm next month. None of that would have happened before!”

“That ain’t enough, and you know it,” Erik said harshly. “T’Challa’s working off his guilt over what your pops did to mine. He ain’t aiming to fix all the shit your people have fucked up for centuries. And even so, I bet the rest of the country thinks he’s doing too much, too fast. ‘Cuz none of them give a damn about anyone who ain’t one of yours.”

“Wakanda hasn’t done anything to the world! You can’t blame us for other people’s actions! We stayed neutral!”

“There ain’t no such thing as neutrality, princess. By not stopping it, you condoned it. Ain’t no different from seeing someone bleeding out on a street corner and just stepping over ‘em and continuing on your way instead of stopping to help.”

“There is a huge difference,” Shuri insisted. “You think modern history is bad? Imagine if Wakanda had been the perpetrator! Power corrupts, and we are not immune. If we had tried to force peace … we are not so perfect as you seem to imagine. Some of our kings have been horrible people. The people of the world have always had at least a small chance when they are attacked. Against Wakanda? They would have had none! No one could have had stood against us, no matter what evil we did. We locked ourselves away to protect the rest of the world from us!”

“That’s your big argument? That you can’t help the people who need it because you might get drunk on the power and decide to kick ‘em while they’re down instead? It’s a fucking choice, princess. Just decide to do good instead of evil. It ain’t hard.”

“Coming from you that is hilarious.”

“Can’t make an omlette without cracking an egg. I ain’t claiming I’ve never done wrong. But at least I tried.”

“What do you think War Dogs are? Wakanda has done much for the world, you just never heard about it because they work in secret.”

“Pops was a War Dog. And in the end, he didn’t manage a damn thing because he didn’t have the firepower to back it up. It’s the same everywhere; seen it a hundred times. You might save a couple dozen here or there, but once you’re gone, they’re victims again. Another drought, another war, and people start dying again. Without the power to force real change, it’s a waste.”

“You seem to be having have trouble with math. As long as even a single person is helped, there is overall improvement and it wouldn’t be a ‘waste.” And even if some of the people we save end up back in the same situation later, there are many others who don’t. Besides which, I’m quite sure that even those who remain in danger don’t consider any extra months or years we buy them a ‘waste.’”

“It’s a waste compared to what you could be doing instead. Killing off the criminals and instituting a government that actually serves the people.”

“And then dictatorial conquest would be legitimized and everyone would copy it!”

“Then stop ‘em.”

“Might doesn’t make right! Someday Wakanda might be the evil one, or the weak one. If we are to get involved, it must be in support of a system that will force governments to remain moral even if the most powerful try to behave immorally!”

“So that’s it? All Wakanda will ever do is offer a dab of tech and some classes, maybe a couple homeless shelters or soup kitchens? While the people of other nations suffer and die just out of sight? You think that’s enough?”

“It might be, if it is Wakanda doing it,” Nakia interrupted. Erik and Shuri blinked at her. Nakia hummed softly, smiling ruefully. A gust of wind caught the feathers of her earring and blew it across her mouth. She caught it in her fingers and twirled it absentmindedly.

“Wakanda isn’t my home,” she said suddenly, out of nowhere. “It hasn’t been for years.” She looked up to see Shuri’s shocked face, and smiled. “Don’t get me wrong. I love Wakanda, and our people. And I am most comfortable here. Coming back is like slipping on a well-worn jacket on a cool morning. And soon I will marry T’Challa, and take up the mantle of Wakanda’s queen. I expect Wakanda will feel like home again after that. But today, right now? Wakanda is not my home. It has been almost a decade since I was here for more than a week or two.

“I am a War Dog. My home is a small apartment in South Sudan, in a two story building of yellow-gold walls and turquoise doors. From the roof I can see over to the emerald farmlands on the opposite bank of the White Nile, and at night the lights from the riverside hotels sparkle in the water like jewels. For me, the smell of home is the sweet spice of the Tamarind tree that grows in the schoolyard next door; the sound of home is the laughter of the schoolchildren, and the jackhammers creating the foundations for the massive hotel complex going in up the road.

“I’ve lived in Juba for eight years. I am rarely there, as I travel the continent on my missions, but I was present for the birth of the nation, and throughout the war. Tens of thousands have fled the city, half the population are children, and prices have skyrocketed till many starve for lack of food, but life goes on. On the weekends I still hear the roar of cheers from the soccer stadium, the cheerful catacophy of live bands performing in bars and cafes. I walk through the deep shade of tree-lined roads in the cool mornings, drink coffee beneath the sun-bleached array of rainbow-colored umbrellas in the markets, collect intelligence from the tourists and oil workers I share pizza with at DaVinci’s on the waterfront.

“I’ve lost touch with most of the children I was raised with in Wakanda. My best friend now is my neighbor Peter. He teaches at the school next door, and thinks I am an immigrant from Libya, there to translate for the Chinese businessmen who have invested in the local infrastructure and manufacturing. So he doesn’t worry when I disappear for weeks on missions. But when I am in town, I go to the neighborhood gym with him each morning, and share tea on the balcony most evenings. We are always exchanging books and music, discussing international politics and local arts. He is fond of Bollywood movies; one of the war dogs I trained with is stationed in Mumbai, so I have her send me DVDs, and we watch them together in his room on lazy weekend nights. He has a degree in economics, and is studying India’s green revolution, hoping it can be replicated in his homeland.

“His mother feels sorry for me, living on my own in a strange land at war with itself, so she has taken me under her wing. She helped me find stores that carry clothes in my size, taught me where to buy the best groceries, introduced me to this amazing café that serves the best soups in the city. She is always inviting me over to dinner, to join her at the supermarket, the hairdresser’s, her friends’ birthday parties and weddings.

“Peter asked me to marry him two years ago. I told him no, but if I was who he believed me to be, if I had not been lying to him every moment of our acquaintance…I would probably have said yes. He is a wonderful person. His family are as much a home to me as my apartment. I will miss them.”

Erik shifted uncomfortably. “You do know that T’Challa is probably listening to us, right?”

Nakia nodded calmly. “I keep no secrets from him. I never have.” She picked up the thread of her story again. “I go on missions every few days, and probably save a few hundred lives a year, spread out across the continent. Usually I just deliver medicines, food, and bug nets to places that have been cut off from supplies due to fighting. Guide refugees to PoC sites, or detour travelers away from roads under siege. Prevent attacks on vital infrastructure. Rescue kidnapping victims. Sometimes I can get into place fast enough to stop attacks altogether, but that is rare. Even when the fighting first broke out in Juba, there was little I could do but help clean up in the aftermath.

“There is an ocean’s worth of need, and I provide only a few drops of succor. For every life I save, I fail to save a thousand. Compared to what the larger aid groups provide, my work is statistically irrelevant. But to the hundreds I save yearly, the thousands I will have saved this decade, it is everything.”

She shook her head. “A few hundred lives a year. Most of my missions are nothing special; I am a deliveryman, nothing more. But I am barely an adult, and have already accomplished more of worth than most Wakandans do in their entire lifetime. And I loved my life there. I loved who I was there.” Nakia smiled, and spread her hands. “So I never intended to return to Wakanda. What could I possibly accomplish here? What could I possibly do with my life that would not seem like an absolute waste of time? We only get a few short decades on this planet. I want my life to make a difference. Leave this world a better place than it would have been without me. I thought that would be impossible from Wakanda.”

Nakia smiled over at Shuri. “But you have done such amazing work here, Shuri. Your medical advances have already given hundreds of Wakandans better, longer lives. If even the tiniest fraction is released to the rest of the world, it will save millions of lives, and improve the lives of billions. In a century, I doubt there will be a person on the planet who will not have been touched by your inventions, even in the poorest, most isolated communities.

“That is why I am staying. Why I will leave the Sudan, leave all the work I have done, the networks I have built, the friends I love. Because Wakanda can do so much more than I ever could on my own. Even if barely anything changes here, our tiniest shift can change so much out there. And if I marry T’Challa, then I can make sure it happens.”

Nakia smiled again, wryly. “You are right, N’Jadaka. The Wakandan people have not changed. They do not care about the rest of the world more than they did before you came. Perhaps some feel a bit more uncomfortable about our history. A bit more open to new ideas, a bit more willing to try something new. But it is such a slight change. Barely noticeable.” She shook her head. “Yet Shuri is right as well. The nation is changing, even if the people are not. We will make only the tiniest steps outside our doors this year. And only a little more the next year, and the year after that. Perhaps Shuri’s new vaccine will pass without fanfare; it is hard to notice those who do not suffer as they might have. People notice sickness, not health. But it will do so much good. If Wakanda will fully fund the medicines to wipe out malaria across the world – and that would be easy for us here - then people will stop losing their jobs every few months due to illness, and companies will be able to schedule work better. Economies will stabilize. Children will stop missing weeks of school every year of their lives, and the population will become more literate. It will not solve everything, of course. There will still be wars, drought, deaths. But people are far less likely to support the use of violence against their neighbors when they have stable employment, homes they might lose if the tide of battle turns against them. Where I saved a hundred lives a year, helping spread Shuri’s vaccines might eventually save a million a year. And that is just one tiny piece of the many changes T’Challa is making.”

The gold clouds were snowing down on them now, dusting Nakia’s nose and cheeks with gold, gilding her hair.

Erik stared at her for a moment. “You are a dreamer. I’ve been through the Sudan. Nothing changes down there except at the end of a gun. Especially now that Stark’s reactor is making the oil fields worthless.”

She smiled back at him. “I am a War Dog. Being a dreamer is part of the job description.”

“What was your actual mission?”

“To help.” She shrugged. “There are four types of War Dogs. Observers, who watch but don’t interfere. They are sent where the danger of discovery is the highest, infiltrating criminal organizations, governments, and so forth. Doctors, who help with specific issues in generally functioning communities. Often they specialize in medical aid, especially following natural disasters. Then there are the Gardeners, who look at the big picture and nudge entire nations in more beneficial directions, fertilizing untended paths till they flourish on their own, and weeding out disruptive influences. I have not checked the records, but from your description, I suspect your father was a Gardener. Lastly, there are the Fishers, who fling themselves out into the unknown like a net, to scoop up whatever little they can save out of a vast tide of human tragedy.”

“What are you?”

“A Fisher, of course. But not by choice. I chose to specialize in Sudan when the peace treaty between the North and South was signed, and it was expected Sudan would start booming like it had in the 50s. I wanted to be there, to help build something great. So I trained as a gardener. But shortly after I ariver, there, the South seceded, and fighting broke out again throughout the south and Darfur. I became a Fisher.”

“How’d you get assigned to the Sudan? Not where I’d expect anyone to assign the prince’s girlfriend, even in the relative peace a decade ago.”

“When Wakandan children are eight, we are asked to choose specializations - three places, three sciences, three arts. We study them on our own, outside of classes, and every day, as part of our homework, we are expected to explain how whatever we learned in class relates to one of our specialties. One of my choices was Meroë, the capital of the Kingdom of Kush. As a young child, I had loved the stories of the ancient kings and queens of the Kush.  King Kashta and his son Piye slyly conquering the entirety of Egypt after the glory days of the pharaohs; the one-eyed Queen Amanirenas leading her people against the might of the Roman Empire after Augustus Caesar claimed Cleopatra’s death voided her treaties. As I grew older I became fascinated by Kush’s art and science, their renowned skills at metallurgy fed by the massive iron and gold deposits around Meroë, and rich with influence from both ends of the Silk Road.

But I quickly realized that events in the Sudan of today were just as historically significant as the ancient past. Maybe even more so. Many of us saw the Southern tribes as a twisted reflection of Wakanda, having been so long cut off from their neighbors by geography, language, religion and colonial policies. I learned English so I could follow events directly from local sources. By the time I was thirteen, I knew I wanted to be a War Dog, and go there in person.”

“What were your other specialties?”

“The Korean peninsula, and the Galápagos. Metallurgy, dogs, and space flight. Ring-blades, discourse, and linguistics.”

“Sounds fun.” And now Erik was jealous of the Wakandans again. He’d studied outside of school, but only the things he knew he’d need for survival, for his revenge. Never for fun. Never just out of curiosity. Learning never made him love the world, the way Nakia’s schooling obviously had.

“Just don’t ask Shuri what hers were,” Nakia said wryly. Shuri threw a tuft of beach grass at her, which Nakia dodged with a laugh.

Erik cocked an eyebrow at them both.

“We are allowed to change them. I changed mine…many times. Every two or three months. I couldn’t list all of mine if I tried,” Shuri admitted.

The trees rustled on the far side of the river. It was the group of brightly painted rhinos that had passed downriver earlier. Erik stiffened. The leader looked a lot like W’Kabi...the riders paused, and there was some sort of discussion. Eight of them peeled away, and headed deeper into the forest. The remaining three turned to face the river. The leader gave a sharp caw-like yell, flicking the reins, and the giant beasts plunged into the water and began swimming across. Headed towards the beach where Erik was sitting with Shuri and Nakia …and where M’Baku was cheerfully having dinner with General Okoye.

Nakia noticed Erik’s sudden tension, and followed his gaze. She placed a hand on his arm, just above his son’s head. “W’Kabi will not cause trouble,” she said simply.

“You sure of that? Because I sure as hell would, in his place.”

“Mother has been in contact with him,” Shuri said, hesitantly. “I don’t think he would have come, otherwise.”

The rhinos snorted and tossed their heads as they swam, perhaps a reaction to the odd temperature changes in the water, while the riders crouched low, laying along the neck like race horse jockeys, encouraging their mounts on with light flicks of the reins. They reached the shore on the far end of the beach, near where T’Challa stood guard, and plowed out of the water with a thunder of hooves that Erik could feel reverberate through the ground where he sat. The riders pulled them to a stop and slid off, as the great beasts quivered and stomped their feet to shed the water pouring off their skin. Within moments, the red and gold tasseled harnesses were removed and piled well above the waterline, and the rhinos moved off to tear at the greenery lining the cliff base.  They bumped into the cliff as they went, sending up tiny puffs of dust and clatters of rock as they yanked tender plants from crevices and stripped bushes of their leaves. Erik wondered if T’Challa was getting worried about his tree being knocked loose.

The riders strode towards the picnickers in tight formation, wet cloaks flapping against their shins. With a nod of his head, W’Kabi - now close enough for Erik to identify him clearly – sent his men along the shore to pay their respects to the Queen Mother, while he turned inland alone, towards his wife.

Erik moved – to do what, he wasn’t sure – and Nakia grabbed his arm, shaking her head. He settled back down uncomfortably, sharply aware of the child in his arms, wishing there was someone else he could trust with his son’s protection. Not that he thought Nakia or Shuri would deliberately harm him, but that was a long ways from trusting them with his son when a fight might break out.

M’Baku watched W’Kabi approach without moving from his lazy sprawl on the mangrove root he had claimed as his throne, eyes half-lidded in anticipation. Across from him, Okoye’s eyes sparkled.

“Lord M’Baku,” W’Kabi called, coming to a stop with a flourish, teeth bared in a mockery of a smile. “I heard you have been stricken with a most terrible affliction. You have my utmost sympathy.”

M’Baku raised an eyebrow. Okoye closed her eyes in clear exasperation, biting her lip as a tiny smile threatened the corner of her mouth.

“Affliction?” M’Baku asked.

“Love for my wife, of course. I wish you the most speedy recovery; I’m afraid in my case the condition became chronic long before I thought to seek treatment. I do hope you are wiser than I.”

M’Baku opened his eyes fully and sat up straighter, leaning forward to place his feet flat on the ground. “I am wise,” he said in a low rumble. “Wise enough to see the benefits of such an … affliction, where you so obviously do not. As it is so unwelcome to you, let me offer my aid, in ridding you of it.”


	11. You want me to be the Killmonger?

_ “Lord M’Baku,” W’Kabi called, coming to a stop with a flourish, teeth bared in a mockery of a smile. “I heard you have been stricken with a most terrible affliction. You have my utmost sympathy.” _

_ M’Baku raised an eyebrow. Okoye closed her eyes in clear exasperation, biting her lip as a tiny smile threatened the corner of her mouth. _

_ “Affliction?” M’Baku asked. _

_ “Love for my wife, of course. I wish you the most speedy recovery; I’m afraid in my case the condition became chronic long before I thought to seek treatment. I do hope you are wiser than I.” _

_ M’Baku opened his eyes fully and sat up straighter, leaning forward to place his feet flat on the ground. “I am wise,” he said in a low rumble. “Wise enough to see the benefits of such an … affliction, where you so obviously do not. As it is so unwelcome to you, let me offer my aid, in ridding you of it.” _

 

***************

 

“Alas,” W’Kabi said dramatically, baring his teeth in a viciously polite smile.  “I’m afraid it’s far too late for me. And I’m sure you are just too new to the experience to recognize the danger.  This particular affliction can lead a man to do all sorts of ridiculous things, you see. Things most inappropriate for a great leader, like putting their own juvenile desires above the welfare of their nation.”

A handful of hastily swallowed snickers could be heard across the beach.   Erik was pretty sure at least some of them were coming from the Jabari, who looked like they were enjoying the show immensely.  Apparently they weren’t a culture that put their leaders on a pedestal, despite all the religious trapping accompanying the “Great Gorilla.”  They were clearly getting a kick out of watching an outsider mock their lord - although it might have been more that W’Kabi was raising the same objections they themselves had.

M’Baku snorted.  “You think the General,” and again he purred her title like a caress, “would be a detriment to the Jabari?  How little respect you have, for one who loves you so dear.”

W’Kabi raised an eyebrow sardonically.  “A detriment, no. But I think you would soon cease to be recognizable as Jabari,” he replied dryly. “Or have you not noticed how little resemblance her Dora Milaje have to their predecessors?  If you expect her to be the one to mold herself to your design, let me assure you; it will not happen.”

M’Baku frowned.  “I neither expect nor desire assimilation. A garden may bear both flowers and fruit, and be all the healthier for it.”

“But a tree that grows too vigorously will impede the growth of its neighbors, will it not?  I have seen your gardens.” There was a grumble of surprised discontent - Erik wondered how W’Kabi had ended up in Jabari lands.  Given how unhappy the Jabari looked at learning he had seen their gardens, it seemed likely they were off limits to outsiders. “There is a careful balance to them, is there not?  Each in their proper place, however entangled and wild they appear. Just as there is a carefully cultivated balance among the people of your nation. But my love, she will outgrow any space you could allot her; your lands will be forced to twist themselves into shape around her. Is that truly what you seek?”

“Are they insulting each other or the General?” Erik hissed quietly to Shuri.

“She seems to be taking it as a compliment,” Shuri whispered back.  Which was true enough. Okoye had one eyebrow raised, but it was clearly amusement, not irritation.

“What’s the point?  Neither of ‘em likely to back down.”

“W’Kabi knows Okoye will enjoy it.” Nakia murmured.  “And M’Baku was fast enough to pick up on that. Okoye has no tolerance for thoughtless actions that do more harm than good, but verbal idiocy has always amused her. W’Kabi’s taking a risk though, blatantly ignoring her to speak to M’Baku like that.  Admittedly, he’s got M’Baku doing it too - likely he’s hoping M’Baku will say something insulting enough to piss her off, but even if he does, she’ll remember W’Kabi started it.”

“Ever woman I’ve known would’ve been pissed like fuck if I meddled in her life without asking first.”

“They probably felt you didn’t think they were competent enough to handle it herself, or that you were trying to control them, because they were used to society treating them as weak. Okoye knows her own strength, and couldn’t care less whether others acknowledge it, because it’s inconceivable that anyone will ever have power over her unless she chooses to grant it. Even a serious attempt at manipulation would merely amuse her.  This,” Nakia waved her hand, “won’t even register as more than entertainment.”

Across the beach, W’Kabi was apparently working from Okoye’s playbook of being so self-confident that insults are of no matter, sweeping his cloak to the side as he folded himself down to sit cross legged on the sand in front of M’Baku and Okoye, his eyes at the level of their knees.  The position should have looked weak, penitent. But W’Kabi managed to make it arrogantly condescending, like M’Baku was being a petulant child by not having another seat handy, and W’Kabi was merely indulging his ridiculousness. Erik grinned.

Shuri followed his gaze and snorted. “That is all your fault,” she hissed.  “He used to be polite.”

“He used to be a pushover, you mean,” Erik countered.

“Hardly!  He led the warriors of the Border Tribes.”

“And obeyed every order blindly because he didn’t realize there was any other choice.  These days, he does something? It’s because he’s used his brain and decided he should.”

“He’s using a brain, but I’m not sure it’s the one on top,” Shuri retorted.

Erik cocked an eyebrow.  “You old enough to make jokes like that, little girl?”

Shuri narrowed her eyes at him.  “So sorry. You act so childish, I thought you too young to pick up on it.”

Erik snorted.  He was getting the feeling that insult-games were a normal part of Wakandan culture.  “I’m at least a decade older than you. And I’ve got a kid.”

Shuri waved him off, smirking.  “Some people develop slower than others, and accidents happen.”

Erik frowned at her.  Tightened his grip on his son.  That wasn’t true…admittedly, it’s not like he’d planned on having a son.  So her words were technically accurate. But still wrong. So very wrong. His son wasn’t an accident.  Not a mistake, not unfortunate, not an error.

Shuri leaned over towards him.  “Don’t take things so seriously.  Turn that smile upside down!” Shuri reached out with two fingers and pushed the corners of Erik’s mouth up, while he glared at her in irritation.

“Shuri!” Ramonda called, suddenly standing behind Erik.  “Come join me. I am going to get drinks.”

“No thanks,” Shuri said, waving her off “I brought some for N’Jadaka and I.”

Ramonda pursed her lips.  “Come Shuri. I’m sure Killmonger can wait.”

Erik sat up a bit straighter in interest.  That was an … interesting choice of name.

Shuri frowned at her mother.  “Don’t call N’Jadaka that.”

Ramonda’s eyes hardened, and turned to Erik.  “It is your name, is it not?”

Erik nodded, letting a familiar mocking grin settle over his face as he licked his lips. “Yeah. One of ‘em.  So far you’re the only one here to use it though.”

“It is not your name anymore!” Shuri protested.  “You are no longer a killer. You are Wakandan now.”

Erik stared at her in disbelief.  She couldn’t be serious. It wasn’t that easy.

“Is she right,” the Queen asked.  “Are you no longer a killer? Does the name Erik Killmonger no longer have any meaning to you?”

“Erik Stevens.  Or Killmonger. Two separate names,”  Erik pointed out, delaying.

“And which are you?”  Ramonda stepped closer to him, as if with intent to threaten.  Which was ridiculous. She wasn’t armed. Erik was. And even if it had been the other way around, she was an old woman, and Erik was a young man, a warrior in the prime of his life, with enhanced strength and reflexes to boot.  What was she doing? Erik glanced to the side. Her bodyguards were shifting uncomfortably, but not moving from where they sat a few dozen feet away. Either they didn’t consider him a danger…or…they’d been ordered not to interfere?  It was a test.

Erik made himself relax, lift his eyes up to meet the Queen’s.  “Like the princess said. It’s N’Jadaka now.”

“The others may indulge your games.  I will not,” the Queen said flatly. “You have no right to that name.”

Erik set his son down on the grass beside him, keeping one hand loosely on the child’s shoulder. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?  It’s the most real name I’ve got. The name my father gave me.”

“It is the name of the son of Prince N’Jobu, and you have no right to it.”

“I AM the son of N’Jobu.”

“Were he alive today, he would have disowned you.  I knew my brother in law. I grew up beside him for twenty years.  He would never have condoned the murderer you have become. You gave up all rights to that name years ago, when you knowingly chose to become something that would have horrified him.”

“Mother!” Shuri yelped.

Erik could barely hear her over the sudden roaring in his ears.  “Father would have backed me.”

“Never.  Oh, I have no trouble believing that he helped Klaus steal our vibranium in order to fund revolutions in the outside world.  He was ruthless. Dedicated. But becoming a murderer just to train? Using our people as cannon fodder? Attacking his own family?  He would never have condoned that.”

Erik just stared at her for a second.  An angry murmur had started up behind him.  Where the Border Tribe children were sitting.  What was she doing? T’Challa needed Erik in control of the Border Tribes.  Didn’t he? “That’s a lie,” Erik said, blankly.

“Why did you think my husband killed him?  How did you think Klaus entered our country, if not with your father’s aid?  Your father was a thief and a traitor, but even he would be ashamed to know you. You can choose to be Erik Stevens or Killmonger, but the name N’Jadaka is not yours to claim. You are not one of ours.”

“Mother, stop it!” Shuri protested, angry fear in her voice.  She knelt up and put a hand on Erik’s back. He shook her off. 

“You want me to be the Killmonger?” he asked, smiling with dead eyes.  Stands up. Clenches his hands. Let the glorious burn of hate unfurl within him for the first time in weeks.  It felt good. So very, very good.

“I would have my people see the truth of who you are.  My husband perpetuated the lie of my brother-in-law’s innocence to avoid dividing the nation, and it led to civil war.  I will not allow my son to repeat that mistake. I will not allow your sins to be forgotten. I will not allow your father’s atrocities to be forgotten.”

“My father didn’t do nothing.  You shut up. You fucking shut up.” Somehow Erik was on his feet.  Took a step towards her. Someone grabbed his arm and yanked him back.  Erik turned his head. It was W’Kabi, eyes wide with confusion and shock, but still determined.  His two men stood beside him. Erik looked further back. His son sat behind W’Kabi, at Nakia’s feet.  Shuri was missing. Okoye stood where Shuri had been, hand on her spear. Slowly Erik dragged his eyes back forward, towards the Queen.  At some point the Dora Milaje had moved to surround her. M’Baku stood in front of them, arms crossed, his people arrayed on each side of him.  The Border Tribe children surrounded them all in a loose circle. Waves lapped gently on the shore of the river. A bird cawed. Distantly, Erik heard the rustle of something moving rapidly through the bushes on the cliff above.

Erik considered it.  He could get through them.  It’d be stupid. And he’d get hurt, maybe killed.  But if he went now, he could do it. His son breathed quietly behind him. The bird cawed again.

There was a quiet thud as T’Challa leapt down from the cliffs to the sand. Walked up behind Erik.  Obviously. Cautiously.

Eric turned.  Pulled himself loose from W’Kabi’s grip.  Leaned down. Picked up his son, ignoring Okoye’s half step forward to stop him, fear on her face.   Listened to the quiet burble of his son’s breath. Walked a few steps forward and pushed his son into T’Challa’s armored arms.  Didn’t bother to look at the empty, emotionless face of the helmet. He knew what was behind it. “Take care of him.”

Erik stepped past T’Challa, unable to hear if there was any response over the furious roar in his ears. Leapt up the cliff, bare feet digging deep, inhuman gouges in the rock.  And walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to BabaTunji for the beta and helping me get everything formatted better!
> 
> Queen Ramonda is actually one of my favorite characters. Powerful, intelligent, loving. A mother and a leader. I’d love to read a biography of her life. But I don’t think she’d forgive Erik easily. It still makes me sad to write her in a way that might make the reader dislike her though.


	12. Ikatana

Erik was jogging through the forest near the base of the Jabari mountains, mind blank and body drenched in sweat, when he heard a child’s giggles from up ahead. Thought about swinging wide to avoid them.  Thought of his son left behind amid people who he didn’t, couldn’t trust, and felt a tightness in his chest. The child laughed again. Lucky kid, that had someone who could actually take care of ‘em. Erik swallowed and stayed on the path.  Not sure if he was trying to punish himself by forcing himself to see what he should have been able to give his son, or indulging himself with a happy scene of domesticity he didn’t deserve.

The path opened up to a small clearing of golden grasses and dappled sun.  T’Challa sat in the middle, still armored but with the helmet off. Erik’s son sat giggling on his lap, a fat tortoiseshell cat more than half his size standing on hind legs to lick his face with determined enthusiasm, while he batted at her ineffectually. One of the Wakandan aircraft was perched awkwardly on the other end of the field.  T’Challa had obviously flown ahead in order to beat Erik here.

Erik paused to catch his breath, bent over with his hands on his knees as he breathed slow and deep, ten long breaths, until his pulse slowed to a more reasonable rate and the air no longer rasped in his throat. He straightened and strolled over, hands in his pockets.  The dry grass crunched beneath his toes. T’Challa looked up at him and cocked an eyebrow.

“Where’d the cat come from,” Erik asked, crouching down next to them.

“Technically she is Shuri’s, but she prefers me, so I have essentially adopted her.  Or perhaps she has adopted me.” He looked down at the child on his lap fondly. “It has been a long time since I entertained a child this young, so I stopped by the palace to grab some help.”

Erik reached out to lightly rub at the scent glands along one of the cat’s cheeks, just under the ear. The purring doubled in strength and the cat stopped licking his son to lean her weight into Erik’s hand, rubbing her head back and forth against his fingers to encourage him to scratch more.  “Friendly, isn’t she?”

Erik’s son frowned as the cat’s attention left him, but a second later he recognized Erik and started squirming unhappily in T’Challa’s lap.  T’Challa loosened his arm, and the child pushed it up so he could wriggle under it. Erik dropped down to sit cross legged in the thick grass as his son tottered over to him, arms outstretched.

“What’s her name?” Erik asked, as his son scrambled over his legs to snuggle up against him.  Erik huffed with amusement as he closed his arms around his son, the tightness in his chest dissipating away like morning dew in the ferocious heat of the summer sun.

“This is uNkosikazi Molweni Ikatana.”

“Mrs. Hello?”  The English sounded awkward and heavy in Erik’s mouth after so long speaking Xhosa.

“Ikatana is part of her name,” T’Challa said, and then waited.

Erik snorted.  “Mrs. Hello Kitten? Seriously?”

“‘Ana’ is just a cute suffix, implying she is little and adorable.   So ‘Kitty’ is a perfectly reasonable translation.”

“How’s a Wakandan princess know Asian pop culture? 

“My understanding is that it is reasonably common worldwide among her generation.”

“But she’s been stuck here, right?”

“Miracles of the modern age.  We have the internet. The people of Wakanda are no more cut off from the world than the average American who never travels overseas.  Less so, perhaps, since we are are all fluent in at least three or four languages, and thus the internet is a much larger place to explore  than it is for someone who is monolingual.”

“Still, a nice lady like this deserves a name that isn’t a pun.”

“She usually goes by uNkosikazi, and Missus is a perfectly respectable name.  I admit, naming pets has never been my family’s strong point, though,” T’Challa said wryly.  “I once named a cat ‘Sleepy Lion’.”

Erik shrugged. He’d heard worse.  He cocked an eyebrow. “Ain’t you supposed to be at the river?”

T’Challa shrugged. “There are things more important than traditions.” His smile faded.  “I want to apologize…”

Erik winced as his son kicked him in the groin wriggling around to face T’Challa again.  Once he was situated to his satisfaction, he pushed off against Erik’s chest with his feet as he leaned forward to reach for the cat still on T’Challa’s lap.   Erik loosened his arms to let his son reach further...and his son yelped in protest and flung himself back tight against Erik’s chest, squirming unhappily until Erik sighed and hugged him close once more. Erik scooted over a few inches until his shoulder brushed T’Challa’s, and his son could reach the cat. uNkosikazi cooperated by stepping up on T’Challa’s knee and rubbing her head against Erik’s arm as his son ran his hands through her fur.  “The Queen is impressive as fuck,” Erik said finally. “Been a long time since someone was able to get under my skin like that.”

T’Challa winced.  “I am sorry….”

Erik glanced sideways at him, eyes half hidden under his hair.  “You get why she did it, right?”

“She was using you as a pawn in an argument she has been having with me. She should not have…”

“Nah, that’s not it,” Erik interrupted.

“Then no,” T’Challa huffed, exasperated.  “I have no idea why everyone suddenly went insane.  I was watching M’Baku; I expected trouble from him, not my own family.”

“Your sister feels sorry for me.  Kept following me around. I don’t like her.  She pisses me off. But it’s not really her fault, and I don’t need to be making enemies right now.  So I hid it. Shuri didn’t notice; her mom did. It scared her. Especially when Shuri started poking at me.  So her Mom picked a fight. Because she knew that if I went after her, you’d make sure I’d never get near your sister again.”

T’Challa winced.

Erik shrugged.  “Reminds me of his mom, actually,” he jerked his head towards his son.  “Linda was vicious as fuck to her enemies, especially when she was protecting the people she claimed as hers.  Mama bear and all that. The best kind of mom.”

T’Challa watched quietly for a moment.  “Yes,” he said softly. “They are.” He hesitated a moment.  “I do not know anything of your mother,” he said carefully.

Erik shrugged.  “Neither do I.” He met T’Challa’s eyes and shrugged wryly with one shoulder (the opposite arm weighted down by his child). “Pops said he’d explain why she wasn’t around when I was older.  I’m not sure if she was dead, or in jail, or if she just left.”

“You couldn’t find her?”

“Never looked. The government probably did when they took me into foster care, but they obviously didn’t get anywhere,” he shrugged.  “I didn’t want to risk finding something and getting claimed by some relative. Having someone pay too much attention to what I was up to might have gotten in the way.  I knew what I needed to do to get where I wanted, and I knew I could do it on my own.”

“Do you want to look for her now?”

“Why bother? She’d be a stranger.  And with Hydra out there? I’d just be putting her in danger. Unless you are planning to kidnap any family we find and take them here, probably against their will.”

T’Challa snorted, but didn’t argue.

“Thanks for taking him,” Erik said, nodding towards his son.

“My nephew is very sweet.  I will have to make more time to play with him in the future.”

They were silent for a few minutes

“Regardless of her reasons.  My mother should not have said those things.”

Erik didn’t reply.  Tugged a piece of hair out of his son’s mouth.  Hissed as he got bitten for his trouble.

T’Challa leaned over and gently bopped the young boy’s nose.  “No biting,” he said firmly, holding his gaze sternly for a few seconds before leaning back and looking away.  The boy froze in confusion and then snuggled back against his father.

“You’re good with kids,” Erik noted.

“The basics are pretty simple.  Stay calm, consistent reactions that always clearly show approval or disapproval with tone of voice and body language...Not that different from dealing with the council, frankly.”

Erik snorted, and tapped on his son’s hands; when he reached out, Erik let him grab on to his finger for a moment and then began slowly pulling away.  His son made a face as the finger began to slip and held on tighter. Erik wriggled the other fingers of the captured hand. uNkosikazi batted at his fingers.  His son giggled. “Any of it true?” Erik asked finally. “What she said. There any proof?”

T’Challa sighed.  “She should not have said it.”

Erik narrowed his eyes.

T’Challa held up a hand. “There is a … rumor.  Perhaps slightly more than a rumor. But the source is… unreliable.  He had strong motivation to lie – loyalty, for one. And he could have been trying to hide his own involvement...  Either way, he is now dead, so it is not easy to prove or disprove it.”

“Uncle James,” Erik said flatly.

“Zuri,” T’Challa agreed, softly.

“So he’s really dead, then.”

T’Challa looked surprised, and pained.  “Yes,” he said simply, his voice heavy with regret.

“Seems like no one else is,” Erik shrugged.  “Couldn’t be sure.” The overly casual tone of his voice…wasn’t an apology.  At all. But it at least acknowledged T’Challa’s pain, somehow. Giving it space by being so obvious about ignoring it.

T’Challa nodded, accepting it.

“Why ain’t you angry at me,” Erik asked impulsively, before he could think better of it and bite his tongue. “For him, if nothing else.”

T’Challa closed his eyes.  “Legally, you had the right to his life, once he interfered.  Morally…I am not certain that he was not seeking death at your hands.  Once I asked him about you…he became different. I am not sure if he was feeling  guilty over what he had done to you, or nervous that I might discover his own guilt if I investigated further.” T’Challa sighed again, and ran vibranium claws through the grass at his side.  “He was never a happy man. He loved me. Was devoted to my father. Devoted to Bast, and all the ceremony and ritual of her worship. I was always sure of that. But he never chose a life of his own.  He had pulled away from his own family, and never had close friends, even within the priesthood. He had no hobbies, no talents he polished beyond honoring our goddess. When I was young, I thought his single-minded devotion was proof of his purity.  Now…I wonder. ” T’Challa cleared his throat. “I was looking into it, before you arrived. But I stopped. There…did not seem any potential benefit to it, anymore. You are welcome to look further, if you wish, however.”

Erik shrugged.  He probably would.  T’Challa was probably right that there was nothing to gain from it though.  On the other hand... “What about W’Kabi?” Erik asked eventually.

“W’Kabi will not be a problem,” T’Challa said firmly, a touch of exasperation lacing his voice.  “He has had his revenge. He does not get to keep trying to claim it based on unproven conspiracy theories from random idiots.”

Erik cocked an eyebrow sardonically.   _ Like me _ , his gaze asked silently.

T’Challa narrowed his eyes, met the challenge.  _ Yes _ .

Erik raised his eyebrow further.  _ And the Queen _ ?

T’Challa’s expression didn’t change.   _ Her as well _ .

Erik snorted.  “General Okoye mentioned having one of the Dora Milaje assigned to my son.  That still a possibility?”

“He is young for it, but yes.”  T’Challa looked at him “You want someone else there when W’Kabi is,” he observed.

“Not sure I want W’Kabi there at all. Not unless there’s some sort of proof.  One way or another.”

“You think it is possible, then.”

Erik rolled his eyes.  “I was eight,” he said flatly.  “No, I don’t think it was possible.  Pops loved Wakanda. Always telling me how perfect it was here, how I’d love it here when we finally returned.  He was always talking about how we could create a perfect nation, a land free of poverty and crime, where everyone had an education and a good job, and people were valued as more than “units of production…” I always knew he was talking about replicating Wakanda. Lots of folk…it’s hard to imagine something better, sometimes.  But not for him. Not for us. Pops knew something better was possible because he’d lived it.”

“That explains a great deal about your anger towards us,” T’Challa said contemplatively. “A different kind of betrayal.”

Erik shrugged. “I was eight,” he said again.  “Your mom was right. I didn’t actually know him, not in the way she did.  Not like another adult would have. But I know he loved Wakanda. She was right that he’d’ve been horrified that I was going to use Wakandans as cannon fodder.  I knew that going in.” He looked down. His son had pulled a handful of grass out of the dirt and was licking it. Erik pulled the grass away. Tickled his son gently until he stopped pouting and giggled again. “I don’t think Pops would’ve set out to kill a bunch of innocent strangers to steal a handful of vibranium. I would’ve.  I  _ have _ .  But he was…stricter.  More honorable. Drew clean lines between the people he fought for and those he fought against.  Wakanda was his; he wouldn’t have fought against Wakanda. But… shit happens in fights. And…I know he was angry.  Not just at what was happening in America. There was something…Nakia said he was a War Dog. But I had the impression we were in exile, not just on a mission.”  Erik shrugged. “He loved Wakanda. But it wouldn’t surprise me to learn he didn’t love all of it.”

“No one ever does,” T’Challa noted.

Erik shrugged.

“Are you going to return with me,” T’Challa asked.

Erik looked at him curiously.

“You were headed for the border,” T’Challa pointed out.  “I wasn’t sure if you were just working off your anger through exercise, or if you were planning to leave us.”

Erik snorted.  “Where would I go?”

T’Challa sighed.  Looked up at the sky.  “Your son will always be safe here.  And without him, you would have no trouble making a place for yourself on the outside.  Even with Hydra searching for you. But I do not want you to leave. You are family. I want to get to know you.  I want to show you everything I love about our land, our people. I will not force you, but I would have you stay,” T’Challa insisted.  “If nothing else, you will be useful. If we are opening our doors…you know things none of us do. You hold the trust of those who do not trust me.”

“Not anymore.”

“There is no proof of Zuri’s claims,” T’Challa reiterated.  “The Border Tribes will see sense. Eventually. Perhaps you must work to regain their full trust. As I must.  But you have still done more to ease their anger than my father or I. They will remember that.”

Erik shrugged.

“What can I do, to keep you here, T’Challa asked.

Erik shrugged. “I’m not leaving,” he admitted. “Was planning to, when I first arrived. But I don’t want to leave him.” He stroked a gentle hand over the delicate fuzz of his son’s hair. Looked up wryly.  “I can take whatever the Queen dishes out. I’ll be ready for it next time.”

“There will not be a next time,”  T’Challa promised with a frown. “And she does not actually dislike you.”

“She fears me,” Erik agreed.

T’Challa shook his head.  “Perhaps to some extent. But even that is not completely true.” He hesitated. “You…have encountered many challenges, in your life. Like this grass, you bend, when you must, to avoid destruction. But as soon as the pressure is off, you bounce back to stand tall, reaching for the sky once more.”

“And even when I break, I just grow back.  Like an invasive weed; impossible to eradicate.”  Erik grinned. It was obviously an analogy he’d thought of before, and was amused by.

T’Challa nodded with a small laugh.  “I have only been truly challenged twice in my life.  My father’s death, and your arrival. Both times, I froze, and took the obvious path of standing square in the face of opposition, absorbing the damage rather than yielding in any way.  It was only later that I stopped to think, and let myself be bent into the form that fate demanded of me. It is a dangerous habit. One I must break. Mother…of late she has been trying to force me into situations where I must bend.  Forcing me to see and accept the darker side of the people around me. She thinks I am too innocent, that I spend too much time seeing the world as I wish it to be, instead of as it is.”

“You do,” Erik said dryly.

“Then I suppose I am lucky to have family willing to point out when I am wrong,” T’Challa drawled, twisting to face Erik, one hand on the ground, eyes flashing with invitation and challenge from barely two feet away.

Erik snorted, and shook his head, an unexpected fondness tickling the back of his throat.  “Oh, I can do that. Trust me.” He looked down and fiddled with straightening his son’s shirt so hide his smile.  “So what happened with M’Baku, after I left?”

T’Challa groaned.  uNkosikazi turned back to  him in curiosity, and then leapt up the King’s chest to lick at his nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincere apologies if uNkosikazi‘s name doesn’t make any sense at all. I just wanted to put a little isiXhosa in somewhere because I enjoyed the sound of it so much in the movie.

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t write much, but dang it, I want more plotty Black Panther fic! Figured I might as well give a try at writing it myself.


End file.
